


Marbles

by Laiquilasse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dying John, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hospitals, Illness, M/M, Memory Loss, Sad, Sex, Sexual Content, Terminal Illnesses, Wedding, Weddings, end of life care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-08 02:58:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 23,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7740748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laiquilasse/pseuds/Laiquilasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A shock diagnosis means Sherlock and John's time together is limited. With John getting sicker, the two of them are forced into situations neither of them wanted. And the clock is ticking for John to get done everything he wants to. Contains discussion of life-limiting illnesses, and discussion of assisted dying.</p><p>French translation in progress: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9800702/chapters/22007627</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Diagnosis

It started slowly, so quietly that only Sherlock Holmes would really notice. Things were misplaced. They'd meet for a date at different times, and have a spectacular argument about who was in the wrong.

They'd been together about a year when it came to a head. 

John forgot his keys. 

"For god’s sake," Sherlock hunted for his own key as they stood on 221B's doorstep, John blushing in embarrassment. "You always keep your keys in your left inside jacket pocket, so you can get to them with your right hand. Honestly."

"It's just a mistake," John huffed. “Everyone forgets their keys now and again.”

Sherlock didn't answer, but he knew it wasn't just a mistake.

Yesterday, John made tea and forgot to switch the kettle on. The day before he was convinced the vacuum cleaner was broken, when really he hadn't plugged it in. His gentle following of Sherlock had turned into a suspicion that he did not know his way around London.

Finally inside, John found his keys on the counter, and made a show of putting them back into his coat. 

"Tea?"

Sherlock said please, and sat in his armchair to wait, fingers steepled, feather-light touch on his lips.

John filled the kettle. He turned it on, then paused. _Water. Kettle..._

"Mugs," Sherlock called from the lounge. 

John shook himself and got two mugs down, putting teabags, sugar and milk in them. Then he paused again, but this time he wasn't wondering. He was realising. He’d been realising for a while, just as Sherlock had. But this last week had been… different.

"Sherlock..." He looked over at the man he loved, and who loved him back. Sherlock looked small, worried. Afraid. "Sherlock, I think..."

"It's ok, John."

"No," John shook his head. "No, Sherlock. It's not."

"It will be."

"I hope so."

They stared at one another, the fear making the air crisp, humming like static about to crackle into a shock of electricity.

The kettle boiled, and John made tea perfectly, not missing a beat. 

 

 

*

 

 

The appointment was extremely patronising. John got asked lots of questions like Who's the prime minister, and what year is it, and of course he got them all correct, feeling slightly grateful that none of the questions were about pop culture.

Then he had to solve puzzles on the computer, copy a pattern, and then it was back to more boring questions like where do you live, and what's your partner's name. Where were you born, what was your regiment number in the army, when did you last visit the bank…

It was all very tedious, and finally John had to lie still as he had an MRI scan. He tried to clear his mind, but he didn’t know how to do that. He lay still and thought.

All he could think of was how Sherlock's money was paying for this experience, letting John jump several NHS lines, and how Mycroft had recommended a doctor for them to visit. Which meant Mycroft knew, which meant Greg knew, which meant almost every else would end up knowing that John was losing his marbles. But if they get this out of the way, they might get a diagnosis, at least, and they might know why John ran a bath and forgot to get into it yesterday. 

John looked at the plastic tube he was lying in, and tried to will his brain into cooperating with him.

 

 

*

 

 

"Ok, Mr Watson," the doctor looked over his glasses. 

“Doctor Watson,” Sherlock corrected him, the tendons in his neck taut. John had kissed those so many times, and he remembered it clearly.

“Sorry, Doctor Watson,” the physician smiled faintly, but the smile soon vanished into seriousness.

John took Sherlock's hand. 

"We've gone through your results, and unfortunately, I’m sorry to say, it isn't good news."

John tightened his grip. 

Sherlock’s nostrils flared. “You have a diagnosis?”

The doctor looked at Sherlock, perhaps finding it easier to tell him, than to look John in the eye. "At the moment, we are prepared to diagnose John with early-onset Alzheimer's disease."

John's grip went slack. His insides turned to water and he stared at the middle distance, hearing a vacuum rushing in his ears.

"What does that mean?" Sherlock snapped. 

"It means John's memory and physical capabilities have deteriorated, and will continue to deteriorate. Irreversibly."

"He can have treatment." It’s not a question. Sherlock can, and will, pay for anything.

The doctor glanced at John. "There are drugs to slow the process, but at the moment there is no cure." He cleared his throat and looked straight at his patient. “John, if you haven’t already, we would advise making some plans. We can assist you with home care, making your flat safer for you to live in, and help you decide what you would like to do if and when it becomes too difficult for Sherlock to…”

John's eyes were too focused on the desk. He was barely forty. He wanted to be so much. He wanted to be a dad. He wanted to get married. He wanted to get old. Fuck, he hadn't realised he wanted to get old. The doctor was saying things like memory loss and life expectancy and care homes and treatments, and John couldn't hear anything properly. 

"John?" Sherlock was speaking to him. “John?”

"I'm ok."

The doctor handed him a long, long prescription and started telling him how to take it. 

"Will you write it down, please?" John's voice was very small. 

 

 

*

 

 

They left the hospital in silence, riding home with clasped hands. The cab driver didn’t try to speak to them, and they didn’t even look at one another, watching the traffic instead. Their hands tightened the closer they get to Baker Street.

Sherlock paid, and John opened the door, having made sure he’d taken his key with him. They still didn’t speak.

The flat was very still.

They got upstairs, and the world crumbled apart.

John let out a single sob.

Sherlock reached for him, and they fell into each other's arms desperately, kissing as though it's the end of the world.

 


	2. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV. Things are changing faster than John expected, and just where is Sherlock when he needs him?

“What are you doing?”

John looked up. “Making a list.”

“What for?”

“Of everything I want to get done. Before I forget how,” he blushed, and saw Sherlock pause before opening the cupboard. They were pretending everything was normal. John took his medication and did his mental exercises, Sherlock nudged him to turn the gas off when he was using the cooker, and neither of them discussed anything.

“I see,” Sherlock closed the door without taking anything out. “May I look at it?”

“Sure,” John held the pad out. “I’ll need your help with some of it, anyway.”

Sherlock scanned the list, one eyebrow twitching as it threatens to go up. He’d been warned by John’s doctors not to dismiss any requests as ludicrous. “Have you been thinking about this long?”

“Since the news,” John nodded. “I figure ten things is enough. They said… That might be enough.”

_You might not have time to complete everything you would like, John. Choose the most important. And, if you can manage, make arrangements for after your death. Sherlock will appreciate that._

“This one…” Sherlock pointed to the last item. “Is that…”

“Yes, Sherlock, that involves you,” John blushed. “Obviously.”

Sherlock looked away, then, a sign John had come to recognise as him fighting off the urge to argue.

“I might need your help with booking the trip to Scotland, too,” John said, trying to lighten the mood. “Can’t remember my bank details.”

“You can read them off your card,” Sherlock said softly.

“I was jok- never mind.” John put the pad down. “So you’ll help me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock stood, and went back into the kitchen.

John tried to remember what he was going to do that day.

“You were going to ring Harry,” Sherlock said, as if he could read John’s mind, or as if he was hoarding John’s secrets.

“Thanks,” John sighed. “What shall I say to her?”

There was a silence – Sherlock was doing his don’t argue thing again – then: “Perhaps suggest she goes for a test herself. Mycroft can help arrange it.”

John wrote this down, his handwriting already sloppier than it used to be. He hated this, this slow falling to bits. He'd always assumed he’d go quickly – in the army, or maybe on an adventure with Sherlock. Not rotting in a chair in some care home, wearing nappies and dribbling. John chastised himself. Care homes weren’t like that. Not really. But people might think that’s what had happened to him.

He found Harry’s number in his phone, and went upstairs to his old bedroom to make the call.

 

*

 

Mrs Hudson sobbed when he told her.

This in turn made John cry, and once he started he couldn't seem to stop. Sherlock hadn't cried, in fact he’s barely shown any reaction other than anger. John hadn’t even realised the burning feeling in his throat and chest was sorrow. He hadn’t realised he was allowed to be sad.

“You’re so young,” Mrs Hudson wiped her eyes, makeup smearing onto her handkerchief.

John was just about back in control, blowing his nose on a tissue. “I’m sorry, Mrs Hudson.”

“Don’t you apologise,” she put her hand on his knee. “You’re allowed to feel whatever you want about it. Sherlock-”

“-isn’t sad. He’s angry.”

“Then sad might hit him later,” she nodded, sniffing and going for her hanky again. “Oh, John. After everything that’s gone on with you two, I never dreamed…”

“Seems a bit pedestrian, doesn’t it?” John smiled.

“A bit.” They took a moment to sit and let the clock tick over them. “What can I do, John?”

“If you could bother Sherlock about the rent, rather than me, that’d be good,” John sighed. “I forgot my internet banking password, and haven’t told Sherlock, yet.”

She laughed. “Of course. Anything else?”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t need babying quite yet.” John forced a smile back.

 

*

 

John stood in the supermarket, trying to look as though he’s browsing the pasta, but inside he was panicking. He just realised he didn’t know which branch of Tesco he’s in. Which meant he didn’t know how to get home. He looked at his basket, with pears and crisps and bread in it – no clues, there. He checked his phone, but there were no messages telling him anything. He sucked in a breath and tries to think.

“Are you ok, sir?” an assistant came over and John almost fainted with relief.

“Ha. Yeah, er, weird question, but can you tell me which branch this is? Just lost my bearings,” he shrugged as if this is normal.

“Southwalk Road,” she told him.

“Thank you.”

She went away, and John put his basket on the floor. He had no idea where Southwalk Road was. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever hearing that street name before. He abandoned his shopping and goes outside.

It was getting dark.

He checked his phone again, and decided to bite the bullet and call Sherlock. He stayed close to the illuminated shop window as he held his phone to his ear.

There was no answer.

Panic shot through John like a bullet. He tried to think who else to call. Mrs Hudson.

Again, no answer.

The streetlamps were lighting, now. It was getting darker, and John had no idea where he was. He had to risk it. He walked to the queue at the bus stop and approached a middle-aged woman, who looked the least threatening out of the line of youths and heavily-set men.

“Excuse me?”

She looked him up and down, and tensed, tightening her grip on her handbag. “Yes?”

“I was wondering if you could tell me the way home?”

She frowned. “Where do you live?”

“Oh,” John blushed. “Erm. Baker Street.”

“You’re not too far,” she said. “Head for the main road, and it’s signposted.”

John thanked her, and followed the direction she was pointing.

He walked for fifteen minutes before having to lean on a wall and breathe heavily, an iron-ring of anxiety around his ribs. He hasn't seen any signs. Nothing he’d class as a main road.

In desperation, he text and called Sherlock again, with no replies or answers.

Eventually, forty minutes after leaving the Tesco, John called Mycroft.

“John?” he answered immediately, and John almost burst into tears.

“Mycroft, oh, shit, thank you for picking up. Is Sherlock with you?”

“I believe he’s with Gregory.”

That explained the lack of answers. “Ok. Er…”

“Is everything alright?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Erm. No. I’m… lost.”

“Lost?”

“Yeah.”

There was the sound of a laptop opening. “Let me see if I can locate your phone. Stay on the line.”

John waited, and Mycroft found him almost immediately.

“Ah, you’ve gone east instead of west, it looks like. Shall I send a car?”

“I’d rather walk.”

“If you insist. Can you see a church?”

“Yeah.”

“Head towards it, and I’ll monitor you on screen and talk you the way until you find your bearings.”

John started walking. There was no small talk over the phone, and not once did Mycroft chastise him for losing his way. Mycroft ended up guiding John all the way back to 221B.

“Thank you,” John said sadly.

“Not at all. John, if you need to go out again, somewhere you’re not sure of, I’d be happy to arrange – ”

“I can manage,” John said quickly.

“Of course. Apologies.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “You will let Sherlock know about this, won’t you?”

John fished out his key and went for the door. “Mycroft… can you tell him? Please? I don’t know how to say I got lost without sounding like an idiot.”

“Certainly. I shall make sure he is aware of the situation before coming home. Gregory is much better than my brother an answering his phone.”

“I should have rung Greg,” John realised, pushing the door open. “I never thought.”

“Not to worry,” Mycroft said. “You’re safe, now.”


	3. Coping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV. Sherlock is struggling to cope with the changes in John, but they can't let this come between them, can they? 
> 
> (Non-graphic sex scene at end of chapter)

“He was lost, and confused,” Mycroft said. “You need to start making sure he tells you where he’s going.”

“He’s not a child,” Sherlock snapped down the line. “He’s not about to follow someone home and let them murder him.”

“Yet. What would have happened to him if he couldn’t get through to me? Keep walking until he finds a policeman? And then what? They call social services who decide he’s not safe to be out on his own. One tiny slip-up, Sherlock, and you’ll lose John faster than you anticipated-”

“Shut up!” Sherlock ended the call, shaking with anger.

Greg folded his arms. “Not what you wanted to hear?”

“Not exactly. He got lost, the idiot.”

“He’s not an idiot, Sherlock. He’s ill.”

Sherlock squeezed his phone. He knew John wasn’t an idiot. He knew John was sick. But pretending this was just stupidity would make it much easier to deal with. Sherlock didn’t know how not to get annoyed with someone who dry-boiled a kettle and made the fuse blow. He didn’t know how to stay calm when John asked him what the day of the week was for the third time in a morning. He didn’t know how to deal with any of this.

Greg huffed out a sigh. “Do you want a lift home?”

“Not in a police car.”

“Ok, I’ll get one of the lads to grab you a cab. You need to go straight home, Sherlock. He’s had a fright.”

“And what am I supposed to say to him?” Sherlock exploded. “Don’t go out on your own? Wear this tracking device? He said from the off that the last thing he wants is to be babied.”

“Then talk to him, Sherlock. Ask him what he needs you to do. Offer help, and accept if he says no. He’s had his whole life, more or less, being his own man. You both need time to adjust to this.”

“I don’t know how much time we even have.” The words were out before Sherlock could stop them, the inevitability of John’s future stained into the air. Greg winced, unsure of what to say. Sherlock can't look at him, keeping his eyes on the desk until an officer comes to say his cab is outside.

 

*

 

John had made toast, and the flat smelled lovely when Sherlock got back.

“You really need to start answering your phone,” John sighed as soon as Sherlock stepped through the doorway.

“I was on a case.”

“I gathered that,” John said, his tone meaning he was using extreme patience. “But I kind of needed you to pick up.”

Sherlock hung his coat up. “I’ll remember in future.”

“Thank you.” John set his empty plate down. “I didn’t end up buying anything from the shop. I got a bit distracted. And to be honest I don’t think I can remember my PIN.”

“I’ll get you a contactless card,” Sherlock said.

John didn’t reply, just flicks his gaze at the black-screened TV. There were several minutes of silence before he spoke again. “Sherlock… is this going to be too hard for you?”

Sherlock stopped whatever it was he was doing, and looked over at the man he loved. He looked smaller, hunched over on the sofa, his hair messy from being blown in the wind outside. They had never been a fairy-tale relationship. Friends who kiss, was one way Greg described them on a drunken night out. Except he didn’t say ‘kiss’, he said something vulgar. But they – Sherlock and John – had always worked. They had always argued, but always loved one another. Sherlock had assumed, if he thought about it at all, that he would die first in some reckless blaze of glory, perhaps in proof of his mental prowess, or that he’d take a bullet for John, or perhaps die of old age and illness, but always before John.

Sherlock had badly wanted to die first.

And now he wouldn’t just have to watch John breathe his last, he would have to stand by as John forgot everything that made him who he was. He would forget everything.

One day, he would look at Sherlock and not know who he was.

“Is it?” John repeated. “Is it going to be too hard?”

“It is not going to be easy,” Sherlock cleared his throat and answered. He walked over to the sofa and took both of John’s hands in his. “But I am not about to walk away from you, John. I promise you that. Besides,” he forced a smile. “We have your list to get through.”

John blushed and nodded. “I should get it laminated.”

“And framed.”

“Tattooed.”

“On your face?” Sherlock didn’t know if they were laughing or crying, now. They were leaning together, heads touching, John planting tiny kisses on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock put a hand on John’s jaw and turned him properly, their lips meeting in a kiss made of hurt and tears. John climbed onto Sherlock’s lap – a switch from their usual position – and snuggled into his chest as they kissed slowly, not needing to speak any more. Sherlock held him close, held him together, hoping that if he never let go, time might somehow stop, or even extend – he’d take that – and they’d have more time for this, more time for kissing, hugging, holding hands and having sex. More time as Sherlock-and-John. Not just Sherlock Holmes. And the late John Watson.

“I love you,” Sherlock breathed, his voice broken.

John looked up. Sherlock knew it was rare for him to say it. He could probably count on one hand the times in the past year. It seemed important to say it now.

“I love you, too.”

They undid one another then, shedding layers of vulnerability as the dark crept in. John was trembling, he knew any time from now could be his last, and he didn’t know how to process it. Sherlock devoured him, tried to erase his fear, cover it with something more immediate, a spike of pleasure in the grim reality that was their present.

It was once Sherlock’s bedroom, but now they shared it. The enclosed space was illuminated by only the outside street-lamps as they fell into one another, John’s tears turning to drops of sweat, Sherlock’s hopelessness melting to undiluted lust.

There was a moment where Sherlock almost asksed John if he was sure, but John answered the unasked question with his body, and Sherlock accepted the answer. They moved together slower than they usually do, savouring the taste and feel of one another, dragging out the night beyond the witching hour until sleep took its turn at their bodies, and they slept, too exhausted to dream.


	4. Principle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV
> 
> John receives a letter of bad news. Sherlock admits he doesn't know how to help. Emotions.

_**Dear Doctor John H. Watson,** _

__

_**It has been brought to our attention that you are receiving treatment for the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s Disease. Whilst we much regret your diagnosis, we have a duty of care towards our patients and the wider community catered to by doctors. Henceforth we shall be suspending your medical licence forthwith, until further notice.** _

__

_**Kind regards,** _

__

_**…..** _

 

 

 

John read the letter four times before the message really sank in. They didn’t trust him to be a doctor, anymore. Not that he was exactly working in a hospital these days, but still, if anyone needed it, he could have helped them and been covered and insured and on the register. And now… He was just some man with a bunch of letters after his name that he couldn’t even use.

He put the letter down, and stared into the middle distance. How was he going to tell Sherlock?

In the end, he left the letter on top of Sherlock’s laptop, too ashamed to say the words out loud.

Sherlock found it later, when he came back from the morgue. John was washing the dishes by hand, an activity that his therapist had recommended to keep his hand-eye coordination in training.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said, approaching from behind. “They don’t know what they’re –”

“No, they do know what they’re doing,” John said bitterly. “They’re minimising risk, and getting rid of someone who could accidentally kill a patient. Jesus, that’s all I am now, a bloody risk.” He put a sopping wet glass down on the draining board. “Sorry if that’s going to interfere with cases.”

“Lestrade won’t care if you’re licensed.”

“He will. He’s under enough flack as it is for letting us on scene. Add a struck-off doctor-”

“You haven’t been struck off.”

“I’ve been retired,” John rinsed a plate. “Same thing. Here’s the door, shut it on your way out. Not even a mention of my pension, which, incidentally, we need to sort of sharpish if you’re going to get.”

“Why would I want your pension?” Sherlock asked, baffled.

“Because I won’t be using it once I’m dead, and you should be entitled to it.”

“But… why would I…”

“Oh, just leave it, Sherlock.” John pulled the plug out of the sink. “Christ, as if I haven’t got enough to worry about I’ve got you pulling the ‘I don’t understand why this is significant’ card on me.”

“Well, I don’t,” Sherlock snapped back. “I don’t want your money.”

“It’s the principle!” John snatched the tea towel. “I can’t leave you with much, can I?”

“Leave me with… John, I’m not going to miss you paying half the bloody rent!”

John burst into tears. He leaned his elbows on the wet edge of the sink, put his head in his hands and sobbed.

Sherlock stood watching him, his gaze burning into John.

“Stop fucking looking at me!” John stood quickly, still crying. “Jesus, Sherlock, if you can’t even comfort me when I’m like this, how’re you going to cope when-”

“I don’t know how I’m going to cope, alright?” Sherlock snarled.

John’s mouth snapped shut. He wiped at his eyes. “What?”

“I don’t know how I’m meant to cope with any of this. I can’t seem to say anything right.” Sherlock folded his arms. “I say it’s not your money I’ll miss and it upsets you. I offer to take you places and you tell me I’m babying you. I ask if you want me to arrange home help and you shout at me.”

“When did I shout at you?” John sniffed.

Sherlock’s face crumpled. “John… You shouted at me this morning. I asked if you wanted me to arrange a home help to do the housework and so on. You told me to leave you alone.”

John stared. “I don’t… remember.”

Sherlock covered his face.

They stayed like that for a few moments, the air thick with emotion.

John spoke first. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock dropped his hands. “You don’t need to be sorry. I’ll do better. I’ll…”

“You do enough.” John shook his head. “I… Sherlock, I’m… frightened.”

Sherlock crossed the room and quickly took John into his arms. John pressed his face into Sherlock’s neck, letting fresh tears come.

“I’m frightened, Sherlock. What’s going to happen when I can’t remember? When I can’t remember us? You?”

“Shh,” Sherlock stroked John’s hair. “That might not happen.”

“It could.”

“Don’t think about it.”

“I have to. I have to, because I’m so fucking scared that one day I’ll look at you and not know who – who – who – ” John sobbed, shaking, clutching at Sherlock’s clothes.

Sherlock held him fast. “Then I’ll remember enough for both of us,” he said, sounding as if his throat was fighting to close.

John nodded, face buried in Sherlock’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one was short. Sherlock's POV chapters will be longer, I think.


	5. Bananas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a test at the doctors', but struggles to get himself ready for it. Sherlock is protective.

Sherlock was used to waking first. He just didn’t seem to need as much sleep as John, particularly these days. John lay on the left-hand side of the bed, breathing heavily as if it was the middle of the night. His medication made him drowsy, and he was taking an afternoon nap every day, but still slept like the dead at night. Sherlock almost envied him his ability to shut down and blank out the world. Sometimes, being awake was the worst.

He’d used to enjoy watching John sleep in the mornings. His soft, grey-flecked hair and faded tan were such a contrast to Sherlock’s, it was infinitely fascinating. Sherlock would watch John breathe, and quietly marvel that he was alive, and functioning, and in love with him. John might wake up, and smile sleepily, and they’d have slow sex, eyes half-lidded and bodies warmed from sleep. It would end with the two of them dozing off again, tangled in one another’s limbs.

Now, watching John sleep felt like watching the clock. Ticking down, ready to run out at any moment. While John slept, there was nothing to worry about. John waking brought a new day of trial. What would he be like that day? Bright and sharp, or down and forgetful? Teary? Angry? It was exhausting just thinking about. Sherlock was not cut out to be a carer, but he was trying his best.

John stirred, then, and Sherlock snuggled into his back, being the big spoon. “Good morning.”

“Mm. Morning.” John groped for his watch. “Huh. It felt later.”

“You’ve got your appointment before lunch,” Sherlock gently reminded him. “Shall I start breakfast?”

“Please.” Neither of them mentioned the cut on John’s thumb from him slicing himself on the bread knife a few days ago.

Sherlock got up and dressed, leaving John to groan to a sitting position as he went to fill the kettle and pour cereal into bowls. John missed the bowl the last time he tried, and combined with the knife incident, Sherlock had quietly taken over kitchen duties. He poured boiling water into the mugs, and started on his own cereal (a children’s chocolate and marshmallow variety John said would make him hyperactive), double-checking the times for John’s appointments. It seemed important to make sure everything was right, as John might not notice if it wasn’t.

Tea bags out, toast in toaster.

“John, your cereal is getting soggy,” Sherlock called.

“One minute, ok?”

“I can replace it?”

“No, it’s fine…”

Sherlock sipped his tea. The toast popped up, and he scraped butter onto it.

“John, your cereal is now soup. Are you ok?”

“I’m… Fucking… Sherlock, come in here?”

Sherlock set the things down, willing himself to be utterly patient with whatever he was going to find. He pushed the door open.

John was standing mostly dressed, but not quite. His trousers were open at the fly, he only had one sock on, and his shirt was unbuttoned and so rumpled at the front he had obviously been trying to fasten it for some time.

Sherlock shoved down the welling sorrow and annoyance. “Ah, ok. I think you need a new shirt that isn’t quite so creased, first.” He went to the wardrobe, John looking helplessly at him.

“The buttonholes must have shrunk,” John said in a small voice.

“They must have. In the wash.” Sherlock came over with a soft plaid number. “Let me get this one off you…” he pushed the sleeves down John’s arms and picked the cloth off the floor so John wouldn’t trip over it. “Do you want me to hold it up like a coat?” He held the new shirt up.

“Um…”

“Or I can thread your arms in?”

“That might be best.”

They went through the motions, Sherlock fastening John’s buttons on his shirt and trousers before starting his second sock on his foot, John puling it up the rest of the way. Neither of them said anything other than what they were doing. This was a step, Sherlock knew. He’d be doing this from now on – helping John to dress.

“Thank you,” John sighed, when they were done. “I’m –”

“I’ll make you some more toast,” Sherlock forced a smile. “I don’t mind mine cold.” He turned and walked quickly into the kitchen to hide the shine on his eyes.

 

*

 

“Alright, John, can you tell me your address?” The doctor hid her chart from Sherlock.

“221B, Baker Street.”

“And what about your mobile phone number?”

“I’ve never known that,” John shrugged.

Sherlock looked at him. That was a lie. John had always known it. He blinked, realising this was how the diagnosis had come so late. John had just got good at lying. To others, and to himself.

“And where did you grow up?”

“We moved around a bit, because of my dad, but my secondary school, it was boarding, was in Northumberland.”

“Really good, John. And what about your parents, what were their names?”

Sherlock saw John’s shoulders tense.

“John, and Caroline Watson. Nee Black.”

The doctor smiled. “Excellent, John, let’s move onto part two… Can you tell me the day of the week?”

 _Oh, no_.

“Erm. Yesterday was… the weekend?”

“So what would that make today?”

“Sunday?”

“Close! It’s Monday, today.”

“Oh.”

“And what about the month?”

“June, no, July.”

“That’s right. And can you name ten different fruits or vegetables for me?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

John forced a laugh. “Right, ok… Er…” he scratched the back of his head. “Apples?”

“One.”

“Bre- no, you said fruit.”

“Or vegetables.”

Sherlock wanted to scream.

“Those green things, oh, god, what are they called? I can only think of apples, now I’ve said it,” John frowned deeply.

“Just take your time, John.”

“Does it have to be ten? I think you’ve made your point,” Sherlock snapped.

The doctor held up a hand. “Sherlock, you don’t have to stay in here if it’s too stressful for you.”

John looked at him. “You can go, I’ll be ok.”

“Fine.” Sherlock swept out of the room just as John triumphantly said: “Bananas!”

 

*

 

“I would really recommend getting some home help,” the doctor said. They were back in her office together, John having done spectacularly badly on his tests. “John, I know you’re an independent man, but you can’t expect Sherlock to do everything for you.”

“I don’t expect him to,” John said quietly.

“I like looking after him,” Sherlock added.

John reached for his hand, and Sherlock squeezed it.

“I gather that, but I think it would be helpful for John to have a carer to help him dress in the mornings, and perhaps to do a few chores?”

“I don’t want some stranger coming into our bedroom and dragging John out of bed,” Sherlock snapped. “We don’t always follow a regular schedule.”

“You might have to change that. John needs routine.”

“I don’t…” John whispered.

“John needs love and help and caring for, not being treated like he’s made of plastic!” Sherlock tried to keep his temper under control. “Routine in one thing, but being told when to get up and what to eat is taking away his fundamental freedoms!”

The doctor sat back in her chair. “Then how about a night carer, instead? So you keep your mornings together?”

“It’s still invasive. I’m not against someone cleaning and washing, but John… He’s my responsibility.”

John looked utterly miserable, eyes on the floor. “Burden.”

“What?” Sherlock snapped.

“Burden, Sherlock, that’s what I’m going to be. Maybe you’re ok doing my buttons now, but what about when you’ve got to…” John trailed off, unable to speak through embarrassment.

There was a beat of silence.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, John still holding his hand. “It’s John’s choice.”

“John?”

“I’d like someone in the morning, please,” John said. “Night… is private.”

“Fair enough. I’ll contact the agency for you, and get them to give you a call.” The doctor printed off John’s new prescription. “Same as before, twice a day, but they’re a bit stronger.”

“So, more drowsiness?”

“Not necessarily, you might actually be more alert, more with it.”

John handed the prescription to Sherlock. “Thanks.”

“And we’ll see you in a fortnight.” The doctor watched as Sherlock helped John with his coat, putting the connecting part of the zip together for John to pull up, like a toddler.

“See you then,” John zipped up, not making eye contact with anyone.


	6. Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV
> 
> John wants more independence, but not everything goes according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for supporting this fic so far, it means so much to me.
> 
> Heads up for descriptions of violence.

“You need to text me when you get out of the station, and text me again when you meet Mike, alright?” Sherlock had just finished doing John’s buttons, and smoothed the front of his shirt down. “When have you got to text me?”

“Sherlock, I’m not dense.” John felt a spring of irritation. It was bad enough that Sherlock was now in charge of making sure he was dressed in clothes suitable to leave the flat in, but this endless babying was getting irritating. He was only going to meet Mike for an afternoon coffee, after all.

“When?”

“When I get out of the underground, and when I’ve met up with Mike. Honestly.” John swatted Sherlock away and went to do his hair – fingertips of wax ruffled through the short greying strands to make it look like he’d put in a bit of effort, as always.

“Your phone is fully charged, and I’ve put a battery pack in your pocket, _just in case_ ,” Sherlock said, holding John’s coat up so he could put his arms into it. Sherlock did a lot of things _just in case_ , lately. He rang John every few hours they were apart, _just in case_. He set John’s shower to the correct temperature, _just in case_. John had the feeling Sherlock would have fitted him with a body-cam if he’d had the chance.

“Thank you, but I’ll be fine. I’ve done this route a hundred times.” John patted his pockets, listing the three things he had to remember. Phone. Wallet. Keys. Sherlock stood back, looking him over. “Stop fussing at me,” John sighed. “Nick said you’re supposed to give me a bit of independence.”

Nick was John’s new home help. He came every morning to help John dress and wash, and he made breakfasts and sometimes a packed lunch for John to have at midday. He was a happy young man with a family, and John liked him, despite his desire not to. He didn’t know if Sherlock liked Nick. He daren’t ask.

“There’s independence and plain old recklessness,” Sherlock sighed. “I suppose we’ll find out which this is. Now, when do you have to text me?”

“Off the underground and when I meet up with Mike,” John said robotically.

“Ok. I’ll see you later, then.” Sherlock gave John a quick hug and a kiss on the forehead. “Say hello to Stamford, for me.”

“Will do. Love you.”

“You too.”

 

*

 

The underground was easy. John used his contactless card to get onto the platform, and caught the correct Bakerloo Line. He had to change at Waterloo. This was the change he wasn’t looking forward to, and Sherlock was apprehensive about. Waterloo is London’s busiest station, and it has several underground lines running through it. John would have to walk, following the signs, until he could catch his next train from the Northern Line. They had agreed that if he got lost, there were more than enough police and security personnel in Waterloo to ask the correct way. It was going to be fine.

The train pulled into the station, and passengers piled off, including John. He went straight to the wall and stood there, waiting for the crowds to pass so he wouldn’t get swept along and panicked in the crush of people. They dispersed quickly, and John checked the overhead signs pointing the way to the Northern Line, and started to walk.

A rat ran past in the opposite direction.

John swallowed his disgust, and carried on walking.

A laugh echoed off the tunnel walls, behind him.

John did not turn around. He put his hands in his pockets, and carried on following the signs. Northern Line. 3 minutes walk.

There were footsteps, now. Heavy ones. In boots. Men. Hurrying.

John tried to make himself seem small, tucking into the tunnel wall as he neared the steps, giving whoever it was plenty of space to pass him-

They grabbed the back of his coat and pulled him backwards down the steps.

John hit the concrete steps hard, banging the back of his head, scraping his face and arms. They hauled him to his feet and punched him between the eyes before he had chance to register what they looked like.

“Wallet. Now.” Something cold touched John’s cheek.

John was shaking, but he managed to pull his wallet out of his trouser pocket and hold it out. It was snatched from him.

“No fucking cash.”

“The fuck?”

John daren’t raise his head. He didn’t carry cash anymore, because he was having trouble differentiating between the notes.

“Contactless card, mate.”

“Fucksake. Phone. Give us your fucking phone.”

John hesitated.

It earned him a kick to his legs that sent him to the floor.

Blood ran into his eyes.

“Give us your phone or we’ll-”

“I can’t,” John slurred. “Need it to-”

The next kick got him in the stomach. John bent double, losing control of his bladder, sobbing onto the concrete.

“Now!”

John pulled out the phone, which now had a cracked screen, and had it hauled from his grip. He thought they were going to steal it.

Instead the thieves smashed it on the ground, stamping on it until the tiny machine was in pieces.

Then they ran.

The whole thing took less than forty seconds.

John couldn’t stand up. He was bleeding, and soaked in his own urine, no way to get hold of Sherlock, or even Mycroft. He raised a hand to touch his face. A deep gash ran from his temple through his hair. He’d spent time on his hair. Why? Where was he…

“Oh my god! Tracey, push the emergency alarm. There’s a man down here…”

“Oh Jesus!”

Someone, a woman, knelt next to John. “Can you hear me? Mate, can you hear me?”

John gave a nod.

“Oh thank fuck, he’s not dead. What’s your name, honey?”

“John.”

“Ok, John. We’ve let the BTP know. They’re going to come for you. It’s ok.” She touched his arm.

John lashed out, smacking the kind woman hard on the side of her head. “Don’t touch me!”

“Shit,” she fell onto her backside, and scrambled up. “He’s drunk, I think.”

“Maybe he’s post-ictal,” her friend said.

“He’s been mugged, for sure.”

The sounds of more boots, heavier ones, carrying something. “Ok, is this the patient?”

“I’m a doctor,” John said into the concrete.

“Are you, mate? That’s nice. Can you tell me your name?”

“John.”

“Any last name, John?”

John paused.

“We’ll stick with ‘John’, for now, then.” The helpers – the paramedics – asked if they could touch John. That was better. He let them, letting them cut off his clothes, letting them haul him onto a stretcher, let them start cleaning his wounds as they got into the back of the ambulance. “Male, late thirties I think, attacked on the underground, lacerations to face and arms, severe bruising to abdomen, possible ruptured spleen, broken ribs… He says he hit his head on the steps when he was dragged down them…”

John didn’t remember telling them that.

“…no known address, though it’s possible he’s confused or has some sort of brain injury from the fall…”

“I’m not well,” John forced out as they cannulated him.

“Are you on any medication, mate?”

“It’s in my wallet.”

“I think they took that off you, mate.”

John shook his head, tears threatening. “I don’t know what it’s called, it has a long name… Nick knows it.”

“Is Nick a partner? A friend?”

“He looks after me…”

“A carer? Do you know his address? Or number? Your address?”

_Tell me your address, John. Where do you live?_

_A tall man with dark curls stood in a doorway, looking like heaven. He smiled. “The name’s… and the address is…”_

“I don’t know!” John sobbed.

The paramedic touched his hand. “It’s ok, John. We’ll get you sorted. The police have the CCTV footage, they’ll start looking for your family.”

The ambulance sped into the city.

 


	7. Scrubs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visits John in hopital.
> 
> Sherlock's POV.

Sherlock swilled the deep red substance around the petri dish. His own blood, along with a chemical solution found beside a recent murder victim. At least, the police had it pegged as murder. Sherlock had his doubts, and left the mixture to react whilst he went back to the microscope.

His phone buzzed.

That’d be John, off the tube.

It buzzed again.

Sherlock looked down at it, expecting a few messages.

 

D. I. LESTRADE CALLING

 

Something cold, slimy and disgusting dropped into his stomach and coiled there painfully. He swiped his phone to answer it. “Lestrade, where is he?”

Lestrade didn’t miss a beat. “The Royal. I’m sending a car for you.”

“What happened. Facts, not story.” Sherlock pulled his coat on, trying to ignore the nausea building around the ball of fear.

“Attacked on the underground. Looks like a mugging gone wrong-”

“What did they do to him?”

“I don’t – ”

“If he’s been taken to hospital you must have some idea of his –”

“Sherlock, I don’t know anything. Mycroft called me. One of his BTP guys saw the CCTV and recognised John from the papers.”

Sherlock had never felt grateful for being frequently photographed, before. “Where’s Mycroft now?”

“On his way to the Royal. You should arrive about the same time.”

Sherlock slammed the front door and stood helpless in the street. “Where is this fucking car, Gregory?”

“It should be there – ”

“Shut up, it’s here.” Sherlock ended the call and got into the back of the squad car, which lit up with blue lights as the driver put his foot down. Sherlock didn’t bother belting himself in, and called the hospital, instead.

“Royal London Hospital, Claire speaking, how can I – ”

“I’m looking for John Watson,” Sherlock snapped. “He’s come to you by ambulance.”

“Are you family?”

“No.”

“I can only give out information about patients to – ”

“He’s my…. Partner,” Sherlock winced at the term.

“You’re married?”

“No.”

A static sigh blew over the line. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t just take your word that you’re – ”

“For God’s sake!” Sherlock exploded. “Doctor, or Captain, John Watson, aged 39, five foot eight, blue eyes, suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, brought to you by ambulance from a mugging on the underground, is that enough information, or shall I –”

The line went dead.

Sherlock gawped at his phone, outraged.

 

*

 

Mycroft was waiting for him at the drop-off point of the hospital.

“Where is he?” Sherlock was asking as he spilled out of the squad car.

“Dukeries Wing,” Mycroft walked beside him. “He’s being assessed before they take him for an MRI – ”

“What happened?” Sherlock clenched a fist.

“I believe he’s sustained a head injury, though at the moment it is difficult to tell how much how he is acting is down to his condition, or his injury… He is apparently very confused.”

Sherlock winced. “He wasn’t exactly confused, earlier… Nothing perhaps noticeable by anyone other than me.”

“You’ll need to speak to them, then.”

Sherlock nodded, and they reached the lifts, taking them up four floor to the correct wing. Mycroft pressed the button, and stood silently beside Sherlock.

“You’ll have to forgive me for not calling you myself, however I thought it would save time if I came here and had the information ready for you. I assume Gregory did not delay.”

Sherlock blinked at the blur of his reflection in the bashed steel doors.

“Sherlock, try to leave emotion-”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said. “Just… shut up. Leave emotion out of this? The man I love has been attacked and you want me to be as cold as you?”

“I only meant – ”

“Then you meant wrong,” Sherlock stepped out of the lift as soon as the doors cracked open. He swept to the desk and gave John’s name.

“Watson?” the receptionist frowned, checking the list.

“I believe he came in as ‘John, question mark’,” Mycroft said softly.

Sherlock stepped back. “He couldn’t tell them his last name?”

The receptionist pointed them down the corridor, and the brothers stalked off.

Sherlock was shaking, now. The adrenaline kick from fear had disintegrated, leaving only anxious shakes, nausea and dread. He could barely walk, and yet couldn’t stop marching towards Room 4, where John was being kept.

They reached the door just as a man came out, holding a clipboard, wearing scrubs.

“You’re a nurse,” Sherlock said.

“Yes… Are you here to see John?”

“I am.”

“We are,” Mycroft said quietly.

The nurse smiled sympathetically. “We understand John has a degenerative condition?”

“He has early-onset Alzheimer’s,” Sherlock said, every syllable like a knife.

“At the moment, we want to give John an MRI scan to see how much the fall has affected his brain, which, of course, could be exacerbated by his condition.”

Sherlock nodded. “When?”

“In the next twenty minutes. He’s conscious, which is a good sign, but he’s very confused.” The nurse opened the door. “Just be gentle with him. We’ll be back for him shortly.”

Mycroft patted Sherlock’s back. “I’ll wait here?”

Sherlock nodded. And went in.

John’s head snapped up instantly. He was tense, his arms and legs held close to his body, shoulders hunched. His hair was bloody – they had only put butterfly stitched on the wound, and he had black bruising down his face, and along both arms.

He relaxed a fraction as Sherlock closed the door. “Sherlock.”

He knew him. That was one worry gone. Sherlock smiled. “John. I’m sorry it took so long to get here.”

“They took my phone,” John’s lip wobbled. “I would have rung you, but they smashed it, and I couldn’t get up…”

“It’s alright,” Sherlock reached for his hand. “I’m here, now.”

John gripped his hand tight. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“That’s alright,” Sherlock smiled. “Neither do I.”

“It hurts,” John let out a sob. “They took my clothes, and they gave me a needle, and I don’t… I want to tell them about me, but I can’t think…”

“I can tell them, until you remember.” Sherlock’s heart was crumbling to pieces.

“Ok,” John nodded. “Ok, you can tell them I’m a doctor. They keep saying like they don’t believe me.”

“They’re idiots,” Sherlock sighed. “But they’ll help you.” He leaned down and kissed John on the nose – the only bit of him not visibly injured.

John tilted his head, and they kissed properly, John’s hand holding Sherlock’s so tight it was as if he was trying to hold them both together.

Sherlock stroked up John’s arm, gentle over his bruises, to his shoulder, his collar-bone. “I love you…”

“Oh,” John broke the kiss with another sob, his eyes swimming. “How can you… when I’m like this?”

“Because you’re my John, and I love you more than you will ever understand,” Sherlock breathed. “Injuries or not, you’ll always be mine.”

“I’m so scared,” John whispered. “Sherlock, I’m scared I’ll forget you. I’m so fucking scared. I don’t want to forget it.”

John didn’t seem to realise he’d already said this. More than once.

Sherlock kissed him again. “Then I’ll remember enough for both of us,” he said, same as ever.

John sniffed, nodding as he fought back tears.

“You can cry, if you need to,” Sherlock settled on the bed, holding John gently without pulling him off the pillows. “I’m here, I’ll take care of you.”

“You always do.”

“You took care of me at the start, though.”

“I…” John paused. “I did something bad.”

“You shot someone for me,” Sherlock whispered.

John’s eyes went wide. “Really?”

“Mm, it was very romantic,” Sherlock grinned.

John wiped a tear away. “I guess.”

Sherlock stroked the uninjured side of his head. “John Watson, you’re impossible, and –”

“Watson!” John exclaimed. “John Hamish Watson.”

“You forgot?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve had an impact to the skull, can you blame me for being slightly out of sorts?” John rolled his eyes. He winced. “Broken ribs. I wouldn’t be surprised if they remove my spleen, actually…”

“Feeling better?” Sherlock smiled at John’s sudden click back into his usual self.

“Not really, but yes, at the same time…” John pushed up the bed as the door opened again. “Hello?”

An orderly and a doctor came in. “Hello John, we seem to have your surname sorted, and so on,” the female doctor beamed. “This must be Sherlock? He’s been asking for you since he came in,” she smiled at the taller man.

“So he should,” Sherlock stood, shaking her hand. “I can give you a list of John’s medications and prior medical records…”

“Thank you, but since his surname and address were confirmed, we were able to access that quickly,” she said. “We need to give John a scan now, to check if there’s been any damage to his brain, and even if there isn’t we would like to monitor him overnight.”

Sherlock nodded, aware he’d just given permission, of sorts.

John’s bed was laid flat, and he gripped the sheets in scared fists. “Will you be here when I come back?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sherlock patted his hand. “I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely feedback on this fic so far!


	8. Smash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV
> 
> John realises the clock is ticking.

The scan machine was not very nice. John had to lie very still, which made him want to scratch and wriggle, just because he wasn’t allowed to. He couldn’t see what the doctors were doing, which made him feel worried. The pain in his ribs was still there, and he really needed the gasp on his head stitching up. It was still bleeding gently.

Sherlock had come to see him, though. That was nice. John didn’t even know which hospital he was in. How would he have contacted him? The men who hit him had smashed his phone. He felt a flash of upset. He had photos of Sherlock and him on that phone. He hoped someone had thought to pick up what was left of it. Maybe the memory could be saved, somehow.

Unlike John’s own.

Sadness suddenly blanketed over John’s body. He would forget. There was no point asking about the photos on his phone, because he was going to forget they were there. Forget who the man in the photos was. Forget his own name, Sherlock’s name, forget everything.

He… didn’t want to live, like this.

But the solution was terrifying. And it might kill Sherlock. He might never forgive John, if he did... that.

The scan finished, and the doctor wheeled John back to his room.

 

*

 

“It’s relatively good news,” the doctor said. “John, you’ve been very lucky, there’s no sign of any injury to your neck or brain from your fall.”

“I didn’t fall, I was dragged.” It was important they understood this.

“Yes, sorry. But aside from your surface wounds, you’re actually alright. You’ve cracked a rib, but we won’t interfere with that, it will heal by itself. The only other thing is you’re likely to develop some very colourful bruises to your torso in the next few days. And any new problems, just come back to us.”

John nodded.

“New problems?” Sherlock asked from the visitors’ chair.

“If John should pass blood, for instance.”

John blushed. “You’ll have to tell Nick, Sherlock.”

“Mm.”

“Is Nick a carer?”

John saw Sherlock tense. “Yes,” Sherlock said. “He’s John’s… helper. For the mornings.”

The doctor smiled. “It’s good to know you’ve accepted help, both of you. This sort of illness can put a real strain on a relationship.”

Sherlock’s lips went thin.

John nodded. “It’s good.”

“I’ll send one of the juniors in to stick your scalp, John, and then I’ll come to discharge you, alright?” she dismissed herself.

John lay back on the plump pillows. “That’s good, then?”

“It’s very good you’re not injured further,” Sherlock gave his hair a stroke. “John… I was so worried about you.”

“I’m sorry,” John sniffed. “You were right. I never should have gone on my own…”

“Anyone can get mugged, John.”

“I used to be able to fight them off,” John whispered.

“I know,” Sherlock glanced at the door, then moved to sit on the bed, beside John. “But you did the right thing, handing your wallet over. You really should have given them your phone, though. Mycroft showed me the CCTV.”

“My phone…” John tried to organise his thoughts. “My – us - on my phone, and you needed to see me calling you,” he shook his head. “No, wait… I needed it…”

“I know you thought you needed it, but I’d rather have you safe and unharmed than – ”

“But they were of us!” John said.

“What’s of us, John?”

“My phone,” he said, trying to get Sherlock to understand. “It – they’re on there – and did anyone – smash the memory up – ”

“John, you’re getting worked up,” Sherlock said gently.

“I’m not!” John huffed. “You’re not listening to me.”

“I am listening to you. What do you want me to do?”

“Find it!” John said. God, it was so obvious.

Sherlock’s face flickered in a burst of frustration that he quickly covered with acceptance. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll find it.”

John blinked. Sherlock didn’t know what he was going to look for. He was lying to John. He was humouring him. How long had he been doing that?

John’s face crumpled up, and he covered it with his hands. “You don’t know what I mean. You – you’re just saying – don’t lie to me!”

“Alright,” Sherlock stood off the bed, shaking his head. “I won’t. But if I don’t understand – ”

“You need to try harder!” John took his hands from his damp face. “I have to try all the time just to remember how to do anything, and you’re just waiting, not even trying, you’re just waiting for me to die-”

“Shut up!” Sherlock barked.

John’s mouth snapped shut.

“Do not accuse me, ever again, of not caring about you. Or of waiting for you to die. How dare you.” Sherlock was vibrating with anger. “You have no idea what this is doing to me. To us. You don’t know. I’d give up anything, everything I have, to take this from you, to make you better. John… I was going to die first. You know that? I was always going to die first. We both knew that. And now… Everything is fucked up.”

John let silent tears roll down his face. “I’m sorry I shouted at you.”

Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed. “Me too. John…” he went back to the bedside. “I love you very much. Please never think I don’t. If you can’t remember anything else… Remember that I love you. Please?”

 

*

 

Back home, and John was using a cane to get around, much like when they first met, though this time it was not psychosomatic. Nick came over for longer mornings for a few days, as it took longer for John to dress with his bruises and cracked rib.

“You’re a proper soldier,” Nick said, pulling John’s jeans up and letting John do the zip.

“I used to be a soldier,” John said, attempting the button.

“I thought you were a doctor,” Nick watched him struggle, then reached out and did it for him.

“I was both,” John watched Nick pick up a shirt with press-stud fastenings.

“Tell me about it.”

John waited for the shirt to be on, and started on the press-studs. He could manage them much easier than buttons, and it gave him a scrap of dignity. “I was a doctor in the army.”

“I bet you’ve got some war stories?”

“Probably, but I can’t think of any right now.” Halfway up the shirt, he realised he’d missed a fastening. “Oh, hell.”

“My fault,” Nick said breezily, popping the studs open again. “Want to try again?”

“No.”

Nick fastened him up quickly, and stepped back. “Ok, then. Shall I put the kettle on?”

“Please,” John nodded, picking up his cane.

“A biscuit wouldn’t go amiss, either,” the young carer grinned, leaving the bedroom door open for John. Sherlock was at the kitchen table, typing. “Good morning, Mr Holmes.”

“Good morning, Mr Gabrielczyk,” Sherlock said without looking up.

John wobbled into the lounge, touching Sherlock’s back affectionately as he passed. He sat in his armchair, and frowned, pulling a piece of paper from down the side of the cushion.

 

John H Watson’s Bucket List

 

  1. Organise money and legal things
  2. Have Harry over (??)
  3. Visit the Isle of Skye
  4. Donate medals to military museum
  5. Order and eat the 3ft pizza at Angelo’s
  6. Spend a lot of time outside, in nature
  7. Make proper funeral arrangements
  8. Make Sherlock watch Star Wars
  9. Kiss. Every day.
  10. Get married



 

John blinked at the list. More a To-Do list than a traditional bucket list. But still… Weeks had gone by, and he hadn’t done any of them.

He had to act fast.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” Nick brought his tea and jaffa cakes over.

“Nothing,” John said, folding it into his breast pocket. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to do today?” Nick asked.

“Yes,” John said. “I want to go to the supermarket. There’s a few DVDs I’d like to pick up.”


	9. Buttons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little closeness, before the real work begins.

“Did you like it?” John ejected the DVD.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You know there’d be no sounds in the vacuum of space. That was… somewhat unrealistic. And the explosion – ”

“But did you _enjoy_ it?” John put _A New Hope_ back in the case.

“I suppose so,” Sherlock admitted. He’d been rather caught up in what might happen to the characters, though he wasn’t sure what their names were, exactly. The important thing was, it had made John extremely happy to watch it with him. Sherlock could tolerate a few scientific inaccuracies for the sake of John’s happiness.

John had stuck his crumpled Bucket List on the fridge, and put a wobbly tick next to one of the points. They planned to talk to a solicitor the next day about John’s will and anything they might not have thought of.

Sherlock was not overly keen on John’s desire to plan his funeral, but he kept his thoughts to himself – John was so much better at remembering and doing tasks when he had something to focus on.

That last point on his list, though…

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the fridge.

Was that even possible? What about time? What about John’s ability to… consent?

Sherlock picked up his laptop and opened it, starting a search on the legalities.

John didn’t ask what he was looking for, just picked up his notebook and made a note about what he’d been doing. That was his therapist’s idea – write down what he’d done during the day so they could establish his routine, and also see how well he was doing with basic tasks.

“Oh, _hell_ ,” John shook out his arm, as if he had cramp.

“You alright?” Sherlock looked up from a page of small print.

“This looks like a spider’s written it,” John held up the page, and Sherlock could see he’d gone off the lines in a couple of places, and there were upper-case letters in the middle of words.

“It’s no worse than Lestrade’s,” Sherlock snorted.

John laughed.

“And anyway, I think doctors are supposed to have illegible writing, aren’t they?”

John nodded, still grinning. “You’re right. I can show them at work and they’ll love it.”

Sherlock blinked. “John… you don’t go to work anymore. Remember?”

“I was just thinking of when I go back… to visit,” John covered his mistake with a quick lie.

Sherlock finished scanning the page, and made a mental note to speak to Mycroft. There was a time-frame on giving notice he was rather worried about. He closed the laptop and stood, stretching. “Are you ready for bed?”

“I suppose,” John messily underlined his writing, scowling at the wobbly ink. He got up with the help of his cane, and Sherlock turned the lights off behind them. “Are we going out tomorrow?”

“Yes, to the solicitor,” Sherlock said.

“Ok. Do I need to take anything?”

“Just yourself,” Sherlock closed the bedroom door and went over to help John undress. It was automatic, now. Before it was awkward and slightly jarring – the activity being associated with sex and intimacy was now just a chore – undressing was no longer peeling away layers to expose secret skin, it was helping John simply because he couldn’t help himself.

They hadn’t had sex for weeks. Their relationship was in danger of shifting permanently - changing from lovers to carer and patient. Sherlock realised he didn’t want to let that happen. Not quite yet.

So that night, instead of hurriedly undoing John’s buttons, Sherlock savoured it. John stood beside the bed, waiting as usual. Sherlock walked forward, and kissed him. John was expecting a peck, but Sherlock moulded the kiss into something softer, and longer, stepping into John’s space, and putting his hands on his back.

John didn’t resist for a moment. He gave a sob of relief, melting into Sherlock’s touch, inhaling the kiss as though he was starving for it.

Sherlock pulled John closer, hand moving down his back, touching and exploring before going back to the front of his shirt and starting to undo the buttons.

“I… I’ve missed you,” John said, his voice cracking.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Sherlock kissed the hollow of John’s throat. “It’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” John stroked Sherlock’s hair, combing through the curls at the nape of his neck. “I haven’t exactly been…”

“We need to remember what we are,” Sherlock’s kisses moved to John’s sternum. “We were flatmates. Then colleagues. Friends. Lovers. And we still are. I love you. John Watson, I love you.”

“I love you too,” John sighed, trying to shrug out of his shirt.

“No,” Sherlock held a hand up. “Let me. I want to. Not because I have to.”

John nodded, eyes shining.

Sherlock pushed John’s shift over his shoulders, letting the fabric drop to the floor before sweeping it out of the way with his foot. He leaned down and kissed John over his heart, noticing how John had lost a bit of weight recently – his bruises were fading now, too. Sherlock paused to slip off his own shirt, then looked John in his beautiful face. “Would you like to lie back?”

John smiled, climbing onto the bed and reclining slightly, propping himself up on his elbows. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock grinned and climbed over him, half on top of John, and half on the mattress, their bare chests touching for the first time in over a month. Sherlock could feel John’s steady heartbeat, a quick-march tempo that deliciously betrayed both nerves and excitement. He kissed John softly, languidly, mouth opening almost as an afterthought as their lips caressed. Sherlock cupped the back of John’s skull, supporting him even as they both gave tiny, shuddering movements against one another’s hips.

“Missed this,” Sherlock murmured into John’s ear.

“Me, too.” John took a little breath as Sherlock’s fingers ran feather-light down his neck, chest, to his belt-line, pausing to spread and starfish over the slight bulge at his crotch.

“Can I see you?” Sherlock asked gently.

John nodded, lying back on the pillow. “Please…”

Sherlock kissed around John’s navel, then unpopped his button, and slid his zip down, sliding his hand inside to run his fingers over the growing hardness in John’s boxer-briefs. John gave a hum of eager anticipation. Sherlock pushed down John’s trousers before kneeling up to undo his own, keeping eye contact with the man he loved.

“You’re sure?”

“I want you,” John leaned up onto his elbows. “Sherlock… I want you to want me, too…”

“I will always want you,” Sherlock leaned down and kissed him deeply, inhaling the scent of him, the taste of him, the touch. That wouldn’t change.

John arched a knee, and Sherlock settled between his legs, only their underwear between them, now. Sherlock kissed John behind his ear, the hinge of his jaw, making John shudder and twitch his hips up in response. Sherlock smiled as he nosed and kissed at the sensitive skin, hands moving over John’s arms and chest, reading him by braille, memorising his skin and flesh, confining it to his mind palace, never to be erased, always accessible, always known.

Never forgotten.

Underwear was pulled and kicked off then, the two men fitting together like a puzzle piece, hard and soft and perfect for one another like neither of them had ever known. John held Sherlock tight, breathing through the roll of their hips, the movement of bodies together like breaking, white-caped waves.

“I love you,” Sherlock gasped, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “God – I love you so much –”

“My Sherlock,” John pulled him closer, tighter. “My Sherlock – I’m so…”

“No sorrys, not now,” Sherlock touched his bottom lip as he moved. “Not now, John. Not ever.”

John nodded, kissing Sherlock’s fingers as their love reached a crescendo, the two of them pressing their heads together hard, as if they could hurt one another, heal one another, become one person through being so close.

“I hate that I’ll forget this,” John whispered, in the darkness, after.

Sherlock stroked down his arm. “I know.”

“I wish…” John didn’t finish his sentence.

Sherlock gathered John into his arms, and held him as though he was made of crystal. John was breaking, piece by piece, and Sherlock knew he could never fix him. But he could cushion what time they had left. And he could start with an item on John’s list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for supporting and reading this fic.


	10. Photographs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's condition worsens. Sherlock kicks things into action.

It was difficult to say where one day ended and another began.

Nick got John up, helped him shower and dress, and made him breakfast. Then Sherlock and John would do something, like go for a walk, or go shopping, or to visit someone. Then it was home, eating Sherlock’s cooking or having take-out, television, and bed.

And the next morning it would all start again.

John felt safe in his routine, it was easy to know what was coming, and where he was going to be. It kept him from making mistakes, and it meant he could be trusted to do things like fetching items from around the supermarket, or reading off the lists.

He didn’t think Sherlock liked the routine much, but Sherlock seemed to get cross at a lot of things, lately. He shouted at John twice on Wednesday (or was it Tuesday?) because John smashed two cups of scalding tea in a row. It wasn’t John’s fault – he had a slight shake now, that seemed to come on when he knew he had to be careful. Sherlock refused to make him a third cup, and stormed into their bedroom, where he stayed for a few hours, angrily playing his violin.

John had sat watching television, waiting for Sherlock to come out and tell him what to do.

Sherlock came out looking as if nothing had happened, just as it was, by John’s measure, tea time.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?” the acknowledgement was drawn-out, stressed, cross.

John looked away. He wanted to ask for a drink, because he was thirsty and hadn’t dared help himself in case he did something wrong. But Sherlock didn’t want to help him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Then why did you ask?” Sherlock dug out a pan and slammed it onto the hob. “Honestly.”

“I’m sorry,” John said, his throat hurting.

“I just need you to try and _think_ before you ask things and do things,” Sherlock started water boiling. “You’re supposed to _plan_ what you say before you say it, you know that.”

John nodded, biting his lip hard to stop it trembling. He couldn’t see the television, everything had gone blurry. He stood up, gripping his stick tight. “I want to go to bed.”

“What?” Sherlock gawped.

“I want to go to bed,” John repeated.

“It’s six o’clock.”

“I don’t care.”

Sherlock caught John’s eyes. “John… are you upset?”

“You’re angry with me,” John said, which didn’t really answer the question.

Sherlock switched the pan off. “John…”

“I – can’t – help – it,” John forced the words out. “I can’t – stop – being – sick.”

“I know.”

“Then why…” John was losing his thread. He shut his eyes and tried to think. “Why do you shout?”

“Because I feel frustrated, and I am terrible at handling my emotions,” Sherlock came over, and took John in his arms. “John, please. This isn’t just about you. I get angry at myself for not knowing how to help you. I’ve never been good at this, but now I know I’m terrible.”

“Not,” John shook his head. “You help me.”

“I try to. It doesn’t come naturally to me, John, I have to admit that. It’s hard. It’s hard helping you to the toilet, and making you meals and taking your clothes off at night. Ok? It’s really, really hard.”

John stared. “What does that mean? You don’t want to?”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t want to stop looking after you.”

“But you will.”

“I might have to, John, I think we both need to realise that’s an option.”

John looked at the fridge, at his bucket list:

 

John H Watson’s Bucket List

 

  1. ~~Organise money and legal things~~
  2. Have Harry over (??)
  3. Visit the Isle of Skye
  4. Donate medals to military museum
  5. ~~Order and eat the 3ft pizza at Angelo’s~~
  6. Spend a lot of time outside, in nature
  7. Make proper funeral arrangements
  8. ~~Make Sherlock watch Star Wars~~
  9. Kiss. Every day.
  10. Get married



 

“When did we eat the pizza?” he asked, suddenly.

Sherlock actually snorted with laughter. “We went with Lestrade, last week? And he got drunk and ordered an ice cream with sparklers in it and set fire to his napkin?”

“I don’t… no,” John shook his head. “Ok.”

Sherlock looked disappointed. “Lestrade took a photo, I’ll get him to send it.”

“What were we talking about?” John rubbed his forehead.

Sherlock licked his lip before he answered. “Nothing serious.”

“Ok. Are you making dinner?”

“Yes, do you want to help?”

“Ok.”

 

*

 

Harry came over a few days later, sans Clara. She brought a big box of photos with her, of John through the ages. John growing up, John at school, John in the army, John John John.

“I remember you getting your army cadets uniform,” she handed John the picture of a freckly sixteen-year-old.

“Lovely,” John said. He was running out of positive adjectives to describe the photos.

Sherlock leaned over to see. “You looked very smart.”

“Yes, very smart.” John put the photo down, accepting the next one.

Sherlock looked over John’s head. “Did you arrange a test for yourself, Harriet?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “All clear. For now. They want me to go back in six months, just to be on the safe side.”

“Are you ill?” John asked. “What’re you having tests for?”

“For dementia, John.”

“Oh dear,” John frowned in concern. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You told me to go, do you remember?”

“Go where?”

Harry looked at Sherlock, then back at the photos. “It’s alright. Can you remember that day? Who’s that, in the photo?”

“Mum and Dad,” John said correctly. He looked up. “Are they coming?”

Harry’s face fell, and she put a hand to her mouth.

Sherlock spoke quickly. “No, John, they’re not coming.”

“Ok.” He put the photo down on the finished-with pile.

Harry stood, going into the kitchen.

“Is she making tea?” John asked Sherlock.

“I think she’s a bit sad,” Sherlock said.

“Why?”

“Sometimes photos make people sad.”

“Oh.”

“I’m going to have to go, Sherlock,” Harry came back, wiping under her eyes. “I’m sorry, I can’t – ”

“You can come back any time,” Sherlock said kindly, walking with her to the door as they talked in low voices.

John fished in the photo box, bringing out a picture of himself on the beach, aged seventeen, tanned and laughing at something someone had said. He touched the boy in the photo, trying to remember him. That was John Watson. He didn’t feel like that boy, anymore.

“My parents are dead, aren’t they?” John asked as soon as Sherlock came back up.

Sherlock paused. “Yes.”

“I’m such an idiot,” John put the picture down. “Harry was upset because of me.”

“No, she – ”

“She was.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

“It’s like swimming in tar,” John said. “It keeps dragging me down, and sometimes I can breathe, but most of the time, it’s just dark and all over, and I can’t…”

“John…”

“Sherlock, I don’t want to get worse.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “What?”

“I don’t want to get worse,” John said again, slowly. “I know what I’m saying.”

“No,” Sherlock said simply.

“I don’t mean now. I mean… I think I’ll know. And if I never know, it’ll mean I’m not me enough to care, anymore.”

Sherlock was red in the face. “You cannot think like this, John. You can’t. Stop it.”

“I have to think like it, because one day – ”

“Your list,” Sherlock said. “What about your list?”

“I’m not even going to get everything done!” John shouted.

Sherlock walked over, and knelt, taking John’s hand. “Maybe not all of it, but we can still do a few things, yes?”

“Like what?” John blinked.

“I’m down on one knee, can you not guess?” Sherlock smiled.

John realised, and blushed, blood rushing to his head, tears springing to his eyes. “Oh!”

“I don’t have a ring, but I don’t think you’ll mind.”

“I don’t mind,” John sniffed.

“Then… John? Will you marry me?”

John gave a sob. He’d imagined his proposal a million times. Always him proposing to Sherlock, never the other way around. And now it was happening, because they had to do this now or never. Be husbands now or die as single men. John was being asked to give his care, his money, his life over to Sherlock to take care of.

And all thoughts of ending his life evaporated.

For the moment.

“Will you, John? Will you be my husband?”

“Yes,” John sobbed out, falling forwards onto his knees too, arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Yes, please, I want to marry you, please let me, it’s what I’ve wanted for years, please – ”

“I left it too long to ask you,” Sherlock said, tears running down his own face. “I should have asked you the day I met you.”

“I might not have said yes that day.”

“You did shoot someone for me, though.”

“Did I?”

Sherlock nodded. And between tears and apologies, they finally sealed their engagement with a kiss.


	11. Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big day arrives...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one, I've had bills to sort, and needed to get paid for doing some writing, which meant fics taking a backseat. xx

Sherlock woke early, and left John in bed, as usual. He dressed only in his pyjamas, because that day he would be putting on the suit that hung on the outside of the wardrobe.

It had been a worrying ten days.

Though Mycroft had leaned on the registrars, John and Sherlock had still had to give notice, and have their pre-marital interviews. Sherlock had sat nervously in the waiting room as John had his, relieved when John had managed to answer every question perfectly. The effort apparently exhausted him, though, and he slept all the way home in the cab.

John was tired a lot, lately.

Sherlock laid out the things for John’s breakfast. There would be no Nick that morning – he was coming to the ceremony to help John there, instead. And Sherlock wanted John to himself for as much of the day as possible. By the looks of things, the weather was going to hold, so they could take some photographs outdoors.

There wouldn’t be a honeymoon. It was quietly agreed that John was not well enough to travel, and if anything should happen, Sherlock wanted to be close to doctors they knew.

 He let the clock tick around to eight, and went to wake John up by opening the curtains and letting the sunlight in.

“Good morning, John.”

John stirred, stretching under the covers. He had lost weight again, despite Sherlock and Nick’s efforts to keep him fed, and his face looked drawn, though happy. He smiled broadly when he saw Sherlock. “I’m getting married, today!”

It would have been romantic, if John had not said the same thing every morning for the last week, and had to be let down gently every time. Today, though, Sherlock could respond in the positive.

“Yes, you are!”

John sat up, grinning widely. “And to you!”

Sherlock had to laugh, walking over to help John out of bed. “I’ve made you some breakfast.”

“Thank you,” John let Sherlock steer him to the toilet, and Sherlock tried not to think about the process too much before they both washed their hands and went into the kitchen.

The pre-wedding breakfast was only toast and cereal, but John seemed happy enough, chatting happily about what he was going to do that day.

Sherlock nursed a cup of tea, and tried not to think about whether John would even remember this day. There was every chance he wouldn’t, of course. Even though Sherlock had kept John’s medication strictly regulated so he was perfect, there was always the chance the day would be so exciting that it would burst like a firework in John’s mind, and vanish.

But Sherlock wouldn’t forget.

Even when John was gone…

 _Stop it_. Sherlock wiped the tear from his eye before John could see it.

 

*

 

People are supposed to cry at weddings, aren’t they?

That was what Sherlock told himself amid the tears. He and John had no sooner begun their walk down the aisle, arm in arm, that Molly started to blub. Mrs Hudson went next, and even Nick and Greg and Mike were all bringing out hankies at the sight of John with his stick, and Sherlock helping him to walk through the shakes to get to the front of the room.

Their small audience cried harder during the vows, when Sherlock promised to love John _in sickness and in health_ , and for _as long as we both shall live_. Sherlock could hear his mother choking back sobs, and a glance back told him Mycroft was biting a knuckle to avoid showing further emotion.

If John noticed the sorrow, he didn’t care. He never took his eyes off Sherlock for a second, beaming through his repeated vows, sliding the gold ring onto Sherlock’s finger with ease.

“It give me the very greatest pleasure,” the registrar smiled, “to declare you both husbands. You may now kiss!”

John almost jumped into Sherlock’s arms, and the audience’s tears turned to laughter as Sherlock held his husband off the floor and kissed him hard.

“I love you,” Sherlock said as their kiss broke.

“I love you, Sherlock,” John replied. “I always will, even if… I can’t remember to say it.”

And then it was Sherlock’s turn to weep, holding John against his chest, drops of sorrow falling onto his hair.

 

*

 

There were more photographs taken than Sherlock could count. Endless snapping by the two photographers Mycroft had arranged – determined to capture every moment of the day, to help John remember, if only for a while.

Sherlock’s parents embraced them both, their hugs tainted with acceptance as they knew their son was going to be a widower before his time, and that they would never really get to know their son-in-law, because he was already changing. Sherlock knew they hadn’t wanted this for him. But how could he do anything else? He loved John. He should have married him as soon as he met him, not waited until time forced his hand, with the threat of legal problems threatening, too.

John was helped to the toilet by Nick, and people pretended not to notice. Sherlock hadn’t realised how quickly things like that had become normal. But for Molly, who averted her eyes from John holding Nick’s arm, it was strange and perhaps pitiful that John couldn’t take care of this basic need by himself. Perhaps she thought John was a baby, or that Sherlock was terrible for marrying him when he needed such care.

Sherlock shook himself. Molly wouldn’t think that; she was a decent human being. But a stranger might. They might think him cruel for staging this wedding, for taking John as his husband.

But if it was selfish, Sherlock didn’t care. He would regret it forever if he had not put that ring on John’s finger.

 

*

 

“We’re husbands,” John said that night, in bed.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and kissed the back of his neck. “Yes, we are.”

“That’s a bit funny,” John chuckled. “When we first met, I didn’t think I’d end up here.”

“Me either.”

“I’m not sad, though,” John turned over to lie on his back, taking Sherlock’s hand and knotting their fingers together. “Thank you. For doing this.”

“It’s alright,” Sherlock kissed his nose. “It was the best day.”

“It was,” John stroked down his jaw.

They said goodnight with a gentle, lingering, kiss.

 

*

 

Sherlock went to wake John the next morning, bringing him a cup of tea in bed in a fit of honeymoon attitude. “Good morning,” he set the mug down, his wedding ring clinking against the handle.

John rubbed his eyes, and grinned up at Sherlock, eyes full of delight. “I’m getting married, today!”

Sherlock froze, his heart shattering in pain.


	12. Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV
> 
>  
> 
> John struggles, Sherlock struggles, John makes a request. 
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING: Heads Up: Contains discussions of bed-wetting, suicide, domestic violence

John woke up, and it was still dark. He shook his head for a second, wondering why he was awake. It was still night time. Why was-

  
Oh no.

  
Oh... No, no, no...

  
John scrambled to get out of bed, panic and hot shame filling him as Sherlock groaned and woke up. "John?"

  
"'S'ok," John lied. "I, er... Sherlock, you should stand up."

  
"Oh," Sherlock stood, taking the duvet with him, clicking on the bedside light to see. "Ah. Ok."

  
John covered his face. He wanted to disappear. Sherlock was saying things, and coming over to him, but John didn't want him to see.

  
"Go away," John choked out as Sherlock touched the waistband of his bottoms.

  
"John, I need you to take these off-"

  
"No."

  
"You're going to get really sore."

  
"It doesn't matter."

  
"John, please, I'm not cross at you-"

  
"Go away!"

John shoved him. Hard.

  
Sherlock staggered back, hands up as he steadied himself. "Stop that. You don't need to push me."

  
John shook his head.

  
Sherlock took a deep breath. "John. Listen to me. I'm not trying to hurt you. I need you to get undressed and have a shower, or a bath. Ok? I'm not angry with you-"

  
"You stay away," John folded his arms.

  
"I can't leave you like this."

  
"I'm ok."

  
Sherlock exploded. "For fucksake, John! You've fucking pissed yourself, you've got ammonia burning your skin and I need to get this mess cleaned up, so stop being a baby and help me to help you!"

  
John put his hands over his face and screamed.

  
Sherlock rushed over, pulling John's hands away, and looking as though he wanted to clamp a hand over John's mouth. "John, shut up. Shut. Up. You can't do this."

  
"Get off me!" John pulled his hands free, and shoved Sherlock again, but Sherlock didn't budge.

  
So John hit him.

  
His illness might have wasted at his muscles, but John was still strong. He hit Sherlock on the side of the head.

Sherlock fell, clutching his skull, eyes wide in shock.

  
John knew what he'd done the moment he saw Sherlock's eyes. He gasped, looking from his clenched fist to Sherlock, who's eyes were shining as he got to his feet.

  
"Sherlock-"

  
Sherlock held a hand up. He shook his head. "Take your clothes off. Go into the bathroom. Wait for me there." And he walked into the kitchen, clicking the light on and opening the fridge. Looking for a cool pack.

  
John's hands were shaking. He peeled off his bottoms, having to step from them carefully, picking them up and dropping the sopping fabric in the basket. He tried to get his tshirt off, but couldn't work out how to get it over his head. So, naked from the waist down, he went into the bathroom, wrapping himself in a towel and sitting on the closed toilet lid to wait.

  
Sherlock came back, eventually. One side of his face was very red, and there was a scuff on his cheekbone.

  
"I'm sorry," John whispered.

  
Sherlock nodded, starting the bath. "I know." He looked at John. "You mustn't hit, John. Even if you feel angry. You mustn't."

  
"Yes."

  
"I know you didn't want me to touch you, but you needed to get changed."

  
"Because I wet the bed," John kept his eyes on the tiles.

  
"Exactly." Sherlock added bubbles to the bath water. He stirred it in.

  
John watched Sherlock mixing the water. His face was bruising. John looked at his own hands. A gold band was on one of his fingers. His wedding ring.  
He loved Sherlock.

  
You didn't hit people you loved.

  
"I don't like it," John whispered.

  
"Being wet?"

  
"This," John touched his forehead. "This... In my head."

  
Sherlock looked at him.

  
"I'm hurting you," John said.

  
"You hit me, but it doesn't hurt, now."

  
"I mean... I'm hurting your heart."

  
Sherlock bit his lip. "John..."

  
"I don't want to be like this."

  
"I know."

  
"I don't want to get worse." John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I don't want-"

  
"John, I know what you're asking, and I'm sorry," Sherlock turned the taps off. "I'm not going to do that."

  
"But-"

  
"No 'but's."

  
"Sherlock-"

  
"No, John. Stand up, I'll get your top off."

  
"I just don't-"

  
"John, I'm not talking about this." Sherlock helped John into the bath, and went to strip the bed.

  
John washed himself over with the bubbles, thinking. He couldn't think of a single happy thing in his future. The present was bed-wetting and hitting and crying. Sherlock was hurt, and so was John.

  
They were falling apart.

  
"Would you forgive me?" John asked when Sherlock came back in. He didn't notice Sherlock's red eyes, or pink nose.

  
"Forgive you?"

  
"If I killed myself?"

  
Sherlock closed his eyes, putting a hand over his face and letting out a sob.

  
"I wouldn't want you to hate me," John went on. "But I think you might hate me if I get worse."

  
"No..."

  
John stirred the disappearing bubbles. "You will."

  
Sherlock took his hand down. "You mustn't talk like that."

  
"I didn't want to get this bad," John glanced at the bedroom. "And I am."

  
"John..."

  
"Can I get out, now?" John's attention switched quickly.

  
Sherlock nodded, helping John out of the bath and wrapping his body in a soft towel.

  
John let himself be cared for, not thinking of anything.

 

*

 

John went to bed in his old room, upstairs. He didn't know Sherlock didn't get in with him. He didn't know Sherlock went downstairs and sat smoking in the lounge.

He didn't see Sherlock type 'assisted suicide' into the search bar.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Understandably, this fic may be getting too much for some. Later chapters may include more of the same discussions, and depictions of assault.


	13. Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV
> 
>  
> 
> Sherlock and Mycroft discuss John's long-term care.

"You're smoking, again."

"Can you blame me?"

They were at the Diogenes. John was out with Harriet and Nick. It was a rare afternoon out for Sherlock, and he was spending it with his brother, of all people. Having a private afternoon tea, honestly.

"No, I can't blame you, as it happens." Mycroft dropped two sugars into Sherlock's tea. "Here. And try to eat something, you look haggard."

"I didn't sleep well, last night. Or the night before that..." Sherlock took the tea, and picked up a scone, not even cutting it in half before biting into it. "John... Isn't sleeping through."

"You still share a bed?"

"Not since three weeks ago..." Sherlock had only briefly mentioned John's incontinence to Mycroft, knowing how much he'd hate people knowing. "But he wakes up and comes padding in, and I worry about him on the stairs, and..."

"I see."

Sherlock chewed and swallowed. "He sleeps in the afternoon, but unless Nick stays, I can't catch up myself..." He frowned. "What is it?"

"I meant," Mycroft said delicately, "if you're not sharing a bed, is your relationship... well?"

Sherlock clattered his cup down. "Mycroft!"

"Well, it is worth asking," Mycroft sighed. "Because if you are finding it difficult to cope-"

"I'm fine," Sherlock snapped.

"Alright," Mycroft held his hands up. "Clearly, you're alright. Aside from the eating, sleeping, and smoking problems."

"They're not problems."

"Of course not."

The brothers glared at one another.

Sherlock gave in first. He put his head in his hands, breath coming in a gush. "I know what they're suggesting. The doctors. Care. Moving John out. But I'm not ready for it."

"And yet, your browser history tells a different story."

Sherlock looked up. "He asked me," he said. "John... Talked about it, and not for the first time. I'm not about to -"

"I know, and I have erased the incriminating search history," Mycroft said. "I don't think you're going to do anything you'd regret. However, you did do the search. Which means something triggered it."

Sherlock glanced away. "John... Said he wants to... not continue... living. He asked me for help, and then... Mentioned himself acting."

Mycroft sat back in his chair. "That's unfortunate."

"Unfortunate?!"

"Do you think he would do it? End his life?"

"I don't know. I don't think he... Maybe. I don't like to think about it."

"But you must."

Sherlock swept the cake stand off the table, where the ceramic plates smashed into the floorboards. Jam and cream splattered, glass sprayed over the room. "SHUT UP!"

Mycroft barely blinked. "And you call this coping?"

"Fuck off!" Sherlock knocked the table over, standing now, no longer caring what he did. "Just shut up! You don't know ANYTHING. You sit there like some emotionally constipated pug, lecturing me on how to deal with the fact my - my HUSBAND is going to die by one way or another? You can't even deal with Lestrade making eyes at you, how do you expect me to take you seriously?"

"Because right now, you can't take yourself seriously," Mycroft stood, mirroring Sherlock's actions, grabbing his bother by his shoulders. "You're only human, Sherlock. You do have to think about what's going to happen, but you don't have to do it alone."

Sherlock gave a sob, lurching forward against Mycroft, into the first embrace the brothers had had since they were children.

"It's just so unfair," Sherlock's voice came in gulps. "I always thought... I'd go first. I never thought I'd have to grieve. And - and he's not even gone, why does it-"

"Because he's going," Mycroft said gently, stroking Sherlock's hair. "Slowly, he's going. And it's terrible."

"I won't let him kill himself," Sherlock broke the hug. "I can't. It's not how he should die."

"Agreed."

"But I don't know... for how much longer I can care for him effectively." Sherlock looked at the ruined china, ashamed.

"You need to look into different kinds of care."

"I think so."

"And... If it would be better for John to live away from you?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head quickly. "No, he might forget me."

"Sherlock-"

"I'm not sending him away, Mycroft."

Mycroft folded his arms. "Fine. But I will not have you making yourself ill over his care, do you understand? That means you get to eat, sleep, go on cases, live your life."

"I can't leave him."

"Yes, you can. You can, and you must. John might be your husband, but you are my brother, and I will not stand and watch you make yourself sick."

"It never bothered you before," Sherlock said, bitterly.

"Time makes fools of us all."

Sherlock looked at the mess on the floor. "I suppose you're going to bill me for that."

"Of course."

Sherlock smiled, and passed a hand over his face. "I'll... I'll sort it. I promise. John... I don't believe he would want me to stop... solving."

"Or living," Mycroft nodded.

Sherlock's smile fell. "No... No, that's what I don't want for him. I don't..." He looked at the ceiling. "I hate that there's no way to know... How long..."

"Then make it easy enough for you both."

Sherlock nodded, just as his phone rang. He froze.

"Are you expecting a call?" Mycroft asked him evenly.

He shook his head.

"Who?"

Sherlock took the device out.

' **HARRIET WATSON CALLING'**

He showed it to Mycroft, who clicked it. "Hello? Mycroft Holmes speaking." He turned away.

Sherlock could hear his blood rushing in his head. There was only one reason for Harry to call. She was supposed to bring John back to Baker Street with Nick at six. It was barely three. She'd only call for one reason.

 _John. John. John. John. John. John. John. John. John_.

"Sherlock."

The younger Holmes looked up.

"John has been taken to hospital. They think he may have had a stroke."

Sherlock stared. "No."

"I'll get a car, and we'll go over now."

"No, I just..." Sherlock shook his head. "I just decided to sort his care. Why. I just said it."

"I know, Sherlock, but we need to go over, now." Mycroft didn't touch him, instead went over to the phone and pressed a button, calling a car.

"He can't have had a stroke," Sherlock was still standing in the mess of cake and broken table. "This doesn't make sense."

"Harriet said they were having tea, and John dropped his cup, his speech slurred, and he couldn't raise his arms," Mycroft picked his coat up. "Nick called 999."

"I don't understand," Sherlock followed Mycroft blindly, as if he was a little boy again. "They never said this might happen."

Mycroft nodded. "You will have to ask the doctors, Sherlock. We need to leave now. John will want you there."

_There. John will want you there..._

_People died from strokes_

_John might die._

Sherlock got into the car and patted his jacket down for cigarettes, finding none.

Mycroft handed him one. "Roll the window down."

 


	14. Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV
> 
> John is in hospital.

  
John dreamed in a kaleidoscope of colour and feeling and pain and confusion.

  
_Everything is slow._

_Everything is blurred._

_Everyone is a stranger._

_Every movement is painful_

_Every word is stoppered_

_Every breath is laboured_

_Every minute is an hour_

  
He let the people touch him and poke him and put things on him because he couldn't stop them.

He stared at the blinking screen.

"John? Can you hear me?"

He looked around at the voice.

"Hello, John. Can you tell me your last name?"

_Watson._

_Or was it Holmes?_

_Watson._

"Wassssson," he said.

"That's excellent. And what day of the week is it?"

"Furrrsday."

"That's spot on, well done."

John flexed his jaw.

"Sherlock is here, shall I send him in?"

John blinked.

"Shall I send him in, John? He's really worried about you."

Worried? "Yeth."

"Ok." The man went away.

John looked back at the monitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your feedback on the last chapter. John's POVs will now be extremely short.


	15. Slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV
> 
> Sherlock and Mycroft visit John, and discover just how badly his stroke has affected him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take John's speech with a pinch of salt. As with many stroke victims, his speech is slurred, but I haven't always typed it out, simply for readability. Thanks for all the support. xx

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

Harriet puffed out her smoke. “It was just so sudden. We were in the café, and Nick was literally just stirring John’s milk, in and John’s face…” she gestured at her own, “it just collapsed. He fell against the wall, and he was just staring…”

Sherlock stubbed out his own cigarette. “And Nick rang 999?”

“Pretty much straight away. He knew the signs, he rang the ambulance straight away, and they got to us in less than ten minutes.”

“Have you stayed with him?”

“Until they took him for the MRI.”

Sherlock nodded, looking back at the hospital doors. They’d been told to go back in at four. “How… was he?”

“He wasn’t really speaking.”

“Did he know you?”

“He knew Nick,” Harriet said sadly. “He didn’t really connect with me whilst we were out, to be honest. He held Nick’s hand in the ambulance, and Nick talked to him. He was really good.”

“Where’s Nick now?”

“He had to go home, pick his son up from nursery.”

Sherlock made a mental note to thank the man. If he remembered. “I was speaking to Mycroft… we were discussing John’s care just before you called.”

“You’re his husband,” Harriet said. “I know you’ll do right by him…” she looked worried for a second.

“What is it?”

“John… whilst we were out… he mentioned…”

A stone dropped into Sherlock’s stomach. “He asked you to help him?”

“In a way. He said…” she put a hand to her mouth. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not now he’s… now he might, anyway. This… Isn’t how he wanted to go.”

“He didn’t want to go at all,” Sherlock said, “but I think he would have preferred to choose his own exit.”

Mycroft opened the door to the smoking area. “They say you can go in now, Sherlock.”

“Just Sherlock?” Harriet asked.

“For now – they don’t want to overwhelm him.”

She nodded, and stuck another cigarette in her mouth.

Sherlock followed Mycroft through the door, palms suddenly sweating. His mouth was dry, and he was definitely shaking, now. He stopped just before the ward.

“Mycroft…”

“I lied, before,” Mycroft said. “You can have someone in with you. If you want.”

“Please,” Sherlock nodded, agreeing immediately. How had things changed so much and so fast that he would happily choose to have Mycroft by his side?

It was with a lurch that Sherlock realised – because Mycroft was the only person here he loved who wasn’t John. And John… might not be John, anymore.

They went onto the ward. John’s Doctor, Dr Ranj, was waiting outside his room. He gave a small smile as the Holmes brothers approached.

“Sherlock. John has said he’d like to see you.”

“Did he say that?” Sherlock asked. “Or did he agree to it?”

“He said ok.”

Sherlock glanced at the door. There was a curtain over the tiny window. “Do you know what’s caused… this?”

Dr Ranj looked at his clipboard. “We’ve done an MRI, and it seems that the brain injury John sustained earlier in the year – ”

“He was given the all-clear,” Mycroft interrupted.

“Yes, however it seems that a very slow, very tiny bleed was occurring, and may have been missed – ”

“Missed?!” Sherlock was suddenly rigid with anger, fists clenching as he wanted to knock the doctor into the nearest wall. “You’re telling me – ”

“Please don’t raise your voice, Mr Holmes. The bleed may have occurred later, but at this point we have no way of determining the cause. But the injury seems the likely culprit. And regardless, it has caused John to have a stroke. It may also explain his rapid deterioration, and his reliance on his walking stick.”

Sherlock wanted to walk away and punch something. He wanted to shoot up the wall, shoot up into his veins, drive his fist through glass and scream until his lungs burst. It had been happening before his eyes, and he hadn’t done a damn single thing about it.

“Does John have a prognosis?” Mycroft was asking.

“At the moment, we are seeing how he progresses overnight. And then we will re-scan him in the morning and make a plan from there.” Dr Ranj looked at Sherlock. “Now… Would you like to see him?”

 

*

 

“John?” Dr Ranj poked his head around the door. “Sherlock is here to see you. And Mycroft, too.”

Sherlock brushed past the doctor, almost pushing him out of the way to get to the figure on the bed. “John…”

John was under a thin white blanket, a drip in his hand, and his fingers were picking and picking at the threads in the sheet. He looked, Sherlock was relieved, almost entirely the same. The left of his mouth sagged a little, it was true, and he looked extremely tired. The gown he wore made him look sick. He looked at the three men coming into his room, and tensed.

“John?” Sherlock asked gently.

John’s eyes moved past him to the doctor.

“Are you ok, John?” Dr Ranj asked. “This is Sherlock? Your husband?”

John looked back at Sherlock.

And Sherlock knew.

“Hello,” John said. “I’mm inna hosh-pital, you know.”

Sherlock couldn’t reply. His heart was crumbling. This was wrong, so wrong. John wasn't supposed to be here, he was supposed to look at Sherlock with annoyance and love, not a blank nothingness.

“I’ll leave you be. Press the buzzer when you’re going to leave,” the doctor smiled at John, and left, leaving the door mildly ajar.

Sherlock still didn’t move. How could he when the world was giving way beneath his feet?

Mycroft cleared his throat and walked over to one of the visitor’s chairs. “In hospital, John. You look very well, I think.”

“Fank you,” John started picking at the sheet again. “Ah don’ rike it in here.”

“Whyever not?”

“They fink ahm stupid,” John went to tap his head, and smacked himself in the eye. “Ow.”

Mycroft took John’s wrist, and helped him put his hand by his knee. “Alright?”

“Yeth. Missss- miss – missed.”

Sherlock choked out a noise, and went to sit by Mycroft, every movement like stepping on a knife. He could feel John watching him. John, who hadn’t said a word to him, yet.

Mycroft glanced at his brother. Then back to John. “You know Sherlock, John?”

John looked at Sherlock. “Havvv-ah seen you on tthhhh telly?” he slurred.

“Sometimes I’m on,” Sherlock forced out. “But we live together, John. We’re married,” he reached for John’s left hand, the wedding ring still on his finger.

John let Sherlock hold his hand. “Are we? Tha’ssssss nice.”

It was like being set on fire.

Mycroft took out his wallet, and Sherlock saw his big brother had a wedding photo in it. Sherlock and John.

Sentiment.

“Here,” Mycroft showed it to John. “Your wedding day.”

John smiled. “You look veyyyy handsommme,” he said slowly. He looked at Sherlock. “Who’sat?”

“That’s you, John.”

“Oh.” He looked at the picture again. “Tha’s me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock squeezed his hand. “We got married. Because I love you. John, we’re…” he stopped, his throat closing up, unable to bear the blankness behind John’s eyes, the vague happiness that belonged to someone else.

John took his hand away, and Sherlock wanted to grab for it, but he knew that was wrong. “D’you know how long I hafffff to stay here?”

“We don’t know yet,” Mycroft said. “Hopefully, not long.”

“I don’ rike it here. They fffink I’m stupid.”

Sherlock didn’t know how long his hand had been over his mouth. How long his vision had been blurred. How long his throat had burned in agony, trying to suppress the scream and the tears that were threatening.

“You’re not stupid,” Mycroft said, ignoring the repetition. “We know you’re not.”

“I’m a doctor, you know,” John said, his clearest sentence yet.

Sherlock tipped over the edge. He let out a sob, tears spilling down his face, the tracks cutting down his skin. “John…”

John looked startled. He leaned forward, and took Sherlock’s hand. “Don-don’t be sssad,” he said. “Issss ok.”

Sherlock clasped John’s hand with both of his own. “I know.” Lies. Utter lies. Complete fucking lies.

“You shhhhould sm-ahle,” John gave a smile of his own. “You’re a handsome man.”

Sherlock wiped at his face. “You think so?”

“Yeth. An – and ifff you’re not sad, mmmmaybe we can… go’n a date,” John beamed.

“I’d like that,” Sherlock nodded. “I’d like that very much.”

“You can’t come,” John added, looking at Mycroft.

Sherlock burst out laughing, still holding John’s hand. “You’re right, he can’t.”

“You can give me a kisssssssif you rike,” John looked so cheeky that Sherlock almost felt happy.

“Close your eyes,” Sherlock said to Mycroft, who covered them dramatically.

Sherlock stood, and leaned in close to John, who was still grinning. “Can I tell you a secret, John?”

“Yeth.”

“I love you.”

John’s eyes went wide. “Oh!”

“And I always will,” Sherlock gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you,” John touched the kiss. “Cannnn I come home wivvv you?”

“Soon.”

“I don’ rike it – rike it here.”

“I know, John,” Sherlock sat back down, Mycroft uncovering his eyes, which were shining.

“I…” John’s eyes slid to the blinking monitor, and his words died. He started picking at the sheet again, gently stimming, and Sherlock knew.

It was time to go.


	16. Unhappy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV
> 
>  
> 
> John has been in hospital for a few weeks, and he doesn't want to be in any longer.

John liked being read to. It was like talking, except he didn’t have to think of the answers. People were always asking him questions. He told them he wasn’t at this school, and he had to be let go, his mum and dad were going to be worried, but then people looked upset.

 

*

 

John did not enjoy the men and women in the white coats coming to see him. They always took his temperature, and asked his things and told him to eat his meals and try new things, and John wasn’t interested in any of it.

 

*

 

John loved it when the tall man came to visit. John couldn’t always remember his name, but he was kind. He brought John books, and read them to him. He took John into the garden, and let him sit on the grass. He talked to John about things that sounded like adventures.

 

*

 

John was upset when Sherlock had to go. “Will you come back?”

“I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Ok…” John picked at his trousers. “Where are you going?”

“Back to my house.”

“Is it nice?”

“It’s… it used to be nicer.”

“Where do I live?” John asked. “This isn’t my house. I don’t have any of my things.”

“You live with me, John.”

“No, I mean, my real house. With mum and dad.”

Sherlock blinked. “That’s… John, you don’t live with your parents.”

“Why? Are they angry with me?” John felt frightened.

Sherlock hesitated, then sat back in the armchair. “No, John, they’re not angry with you. But you live with me, remember? Because we’re married?”

John frowned in confusion.

Sherlock pointed to the wedding photo on John’s bedside table. “See? That’s you and me.”

“Oh,” John smiled. “I remember it, it was a lovely day.” John knew he was lying, but Sherlock looked worried about it, he had to make him feel better. He reached for his hand, and Sherlock took hold. “I do love you.”

Sherlock let out a dry sob, going over to John’s chair and holding him tight. “John… I love you, too.”

John let himself be rocked, his mind gently drifting as he inhaled the lovely smell of Sherlock. He flinched, as a memory surfaced. “Sherlock – Sherlock – I’m not – ”

Sherlock looked at him. “Not what?”

“I’m…” the words were slipping away like water through his fingers. “I’m not… happy…” John forced out.

Sherlock looked shocked. “Not happy?”

“I don’t like it,” John whispered. “You need to… Help me. I want… to go home with you.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “John, I don’t know if you’re –”

“I need to be going home with you,” John said again, trying to make himself understood. “I need…” a sharp pain lanced through his head, and he felt it run through his neck like fire. “Shhhhhhlllllckkk…”

“John!” Sherlock was standing, shouting “NURSE!” as John slumped in his chair, blackness eating at his vision.


	17. Dose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV
> 
> John starts palliative care, and Sherlock is in denial about his responsibilities.

“It’s certainly not usual for patients to experience mini-strokes after a large one like John had,” Dr Ranj said gently. He leaned over his desk, as if thinking of what to say next.

“It didn’t look very… ‘mini’,” Sherlock said.

“I understand, it’s very scary, but John recovered quickly, yes?”

“If you count not walking and the slur returning to his speech as recovering,” Sherlock muttered darkly.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned.

“It’s alright,” Dr Ranj held a hand up. “But I think the time has come, perhaps, to discuss palliative care.”

Sherlock looked up. “What?”

“Palliative care means –”

“I know what it means, I’m not a simpleton,” Sherlock snapped. “I mean… why now? He’s… recovering, you just said so.”

Dr Ranj made a sympathetic face. “Our scans and experience show that although John is responding a little to very powerful drugs, he isn’t making the sort of progress that would indicate any long-term recovery. His Alzheimer’s, combined with the effects of his strokes, means we are now in the position where making John comfortable, and dealing with his pain, is the best way forward.”

Sherlock stared. “So… he’s not going to get better?”

“No, Sherlock. John isn’t going to get any better, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock couldn’t speak. His throat had closed up.

Mycroft leaned forward. “You mentioned pain management?”

“Yes,” Dr Ranj pulled out a booklet. “Palliative care is something that is built on not _prolonging_ a patient’s pain.”

Sherlock looked up. Mycroft and Dr Ranj were very still, and Sherlock realised he was in one of those situations where no one says precisely what they mean. “You don’t _prolong_ the pain?”

“No,” Dr Ranj looked at him. “That’s very important, Sherlock. If you feel John is hurting, you must act, and so much we. We depend very much on you telling us, if John is unable to communicate.” He cleared his throat. “Did John talk to you at all about how he would like to spend his last days of life?”

_Last days of life._

“He…” Sherlock shifted on the chair. “He said… Before he had the first…” He looked at Mycroft, who nodded. “He didn’t want to drag things out. He… was very clear about that.”

“I understand,” Dr Ranj looked at his desk as Sherlock wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “There are complimentary therapies we have been doing in hospital with him – massages, and so on – so if he wanted to keep on with those, it would be best for him to stay here.”

“I don’t want him to die here,” Sherlock choked out. “I want… He keeps asking to come home. I want him home. He wants to be home.”

“We can certainly make it possible for John to spend his last days of life at home, that isn’t a problem.”

“If John was at home, how would pain management work?” Mycroft asked.

“We would need to visit John to administer anything stronger that codeine,” Dr Ranj said. “There’s no way around that, I’m afraid.”

“He can’t have a morphine pump?”

“I don’t want to operate on John at this stage.”

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes for a moment. “Fine. So… what happens now? We go and tell John… what?”

“Tell him he’s going home,” Dr Ranj said. “If he asks if he’s better, you can be honest with him and say ‘no’, but often dementia patients at this stage have a suspicion about what is happening, and don’t ask. It’s the mind’s way of protecting itself from fear. It is often very frightening to be dying.”

“I know,” Sherlock said.

 

*

 

“I’m coming home with you!” John was ecstatic at the news, and repeated it every five minutes as he watched Sherlock and Mycroft pack his things up. “Can I watch TV?”

“Of course you can,” Sherlock clicked his suitcase shut. “And you can choose what you’d like for dinner.”

“Ice cream?” John asked, cheekily.

“That’s pudding,” Sherlock smiled, his chest aching. He lowered his voice a bit. “Though maybe we can make an exception.”

John covered his smile with a hand.

They had to wheel John through the corridors, and he cheerfully said goodbye to all the nurses and doctors, though most of them looked sad to see him go. They knew why he was going home, of course. They knew.

It took a long time to hail a cab with disabled access, and by the time Sherlock and Mycroft clipped John’s chair into place, he was tired and miserable.

“Can we go home, now?” he asked for the hundredth time.

Sherlock grit his teeth, trying not to get cross. “Yes, we’re going. Won’t be too much longer.”

“I’m really tired,” John leaned his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

The irritation melted away. Sherlock stroked John’s hair. “I know, John. We’ll be home, soon.”

“Have I got my own bedroom?”

“You have.”

“Will you show it to me?”

“Yes.”

John smiled, his fingers gently stimming, picking at his jeans. “I’m going home with you.”

“You are.” Sherlock took one of his hands, feeling the bones beneath the skin. What a miracle John was. What a miracle they were. Alive, and living; bones and skin and muscles and hearts and blood. Chemicals and electricity keeping the indescribable ‘aliveness’ of someone going. And yet John’s was about to end. He would stop, and never begin again.

Sherlock had not known him nearly long enough.

“I love you,” he said suddenly.

“That’s nice,” John replied, eyes closed.

 

*

 

Sherlock had to carry John up the stairs, Mycroft following behind with the case. They left the wheelchair in the entrance hall.

John didn’t recognise Mrs Hudson, and it made her cry.

“Why was that lady sad?” John asked as Sherlock set him down on the sofa.

“I’m not sure, I’ll ask her,” Sherlock pulled a blanket over John’s knees. “Would you like anything?”

“Tea?” John hadn’t been allowed tea in hospital, in case he burned himself.

“I’ll make you both some,” Mycroft went to sort in the kitchen, where Sherlock had bought spill-proof mugs with lids on.

“Sit with me?” John patted the space beside him, and Sherlock slid into it. “You can keep me company, you’re very handsome.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock took John’s hand. “That must be why you married me.”

“Are we married?”

“See?” Sherlock raised John’s hand to show him his wedding ring.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” John snuggled into Sherlock’s side. “I like that…”

“Here,” Mycroft had made them all tea in the unspillable mugs, so John wasn’t the odd one out. “Happy homecoming, John.”

“I’m better, now,” John didn’t go to take the tea. “That’s why I can come home.”

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a look.

“No, John,” Sherlock said, holding him. “You’re not better, I’m afraid. You’ve come home to be with me.”

“I’m not better?”

“No, my love, you’re not. I’m so sorry.”

“Why…?” John looked so confused and upset.

“Because the doctors can’t make you better. But they want you to be happy, so they’ve let you come home.” It was killing Sherlock. Absolutely killing him, but John was clinging to his clothes so tight, holding on with fright and confusion, he had to be honest now, even if John would forget this in five minutes.

“Am I going to get more poorly?” John asked, eyes wide.

“You might, John.”

“I don’t want to!”

“I know, but –”

“Sherlock,” John rarely used Sherlock’s name these days, and hearing it almost sent the detective to the floor. “Sherlock, I don’t want to get more poorly. My head hurts, and… I don’t know things, and it’s scary! I don’t… I don’t want to!”

John’s face was wet, pressed into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, his hands holding his shoulders tight. Sherlock held him back, pulling the man onto his lap and rocking him slightly, shushing him as he stroked his hair, his back.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured. “You know what he’s telling you. What he’s been telling you since the start. What Dr Ranj was telling you. You know.”

“I can’t,” Sherlock shook his head. “I can’t do it.”

“John would do it for you.”

“He…”

“He wouldn’t let you suffer, and you know it.”

“He’s not… Mycroft, I can’t just… do that!”

Mycroft stood. “You know I would do anything for you. Either of you. You wouldn’t have to worry about… what came next. I would protect you.”

Sherlock stared, then nodded, cuddling John closer. “Not yet.”

“How long can you leave it, Sherlock? How long will you keep him like this? Until he can no longer ask for your help? Until he can no longer eat? Out of hospital, you know it is a matter of time.”

“Stop,” Sherlock sniffed. “Just, stop.”

John pulled back from the cuddle. “You’re sad.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, face shining with tear-tracks. “I’m sad.”

“Don’t be sad,” John kissed his head, like a bullet-wound into Sherlock’s brain. He sighed. “I’m tired. I’ve got a headache.”

“I can give you something for it,” Sherlock nodded, letting John sit back on the sofa. “Is that ok?”

“Please.” John tried to pull his blanket up. Sherlock helped him.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, picking up his coat, “don’t leave things too late. He’s asking for your help. Don’t be selfish. Please.”

“I’m not being selfish,” Sherlock stood. “You don’t understand. I – I can’t just lose him. I can’t be the one who… makes him stop.”

“You think I don’t understand what it’s like to be afraid of losing someone?” Mycroft shook his head. “Who found you, time after time, when you were slowly killing yourself? Who came for you? Who –”

Sherlock held a hand up. “Mycroft, please. Don’t compare my past to this present.”

“What I’m saying is, I will always look after you, Sherlock. And I know you want to look after John. And there is more than one way of doing that.”

Sherlock bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. “You all expect me to just… kill him.”

“We expect you to not want him to suffer. That’s what we expect of the man who loves him. That’s what people do, Sherlock. They make their loved one comfortable. At peace. They take their suffering away.”

“But if I do that… he’ll never… come back.”

Mycroft’s face crumpled for an instant. “I know, brother mine. I know. But if the John you fell in love with ever coming back? Is the John you married ever coming back?”

Sherlock stared.

“I’m on the end of the phone, should you need me,” Mycroft nodded. He turned to John. “Goodbye, John.”

“Bye,” John said absently.

 

*

 

After he put John to bed, with a small dose of codeine to help him sleep, Sherlock went up into John’s old bedroom. He ran his hands over the clothes John no longer fit into, thin as he was. He picked up the pillow and sniffed it, disappointed it only smell of wash powder. He roamed through the small room, touching the objects John no longer used, until he went back to the wardrobe. He knelt, and lifted out John’s old LAS bag.

The London Ambulance Service, like many others around Britain, used HEMS Fast Car responders. John had been one, for a while, when he needed the money. Before they were a couple.

Sherlock unzipped the bag, and took out the neatly-stacked objects. Defib. Bandages. Scissors. Intubation kits.

Drugs.

He lifted out the plastic box of opiates, taking the lid off to read the contents. Several syringes of codeine. And three small bottles of morphine, each one carefully numbered. They were well within their expiry dates, and yet John had not returned them to the pharmacy. He’d been lax about that. Sherlock had never felt a touch of gratitude towards John’s absent-mindedness, before.

Mycroft had promised to protect him. That meant making sure Sherlock would not fall under scrutiny if things were to… happen. Sherlock trusted Mycroft to do that much.

He packed the LAS bag up again, putting everything precisely where it should be, except for the morphine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can read more about NHS attitudes to end of life care here: http://www.nhs.uk/Planners/end-of-life-care/Pages/controlling-pain-and-other-symptoms.aspx
> 
> I have taken a few liberties, but I don't feel it's right for anyone to take responsibility from Sherlock during this fic.


	18. Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV
> 
> John asks for help.

John reached for the plastic cup of water and knocked it over, spilling it onto the floor. The waterfall-like sound made him need the toilet, and he tried to stand to take himself, but he couldn’t. He panicked, crying out, he was going to wet himself.

And he did.

Except the wetness didn’t soak through his clothes.

He was wearing something padded and absorbent, for that very reason.

Unease and slight horror crept through John. He dropped a hand to his waist, slipping his fingers under his elasticated waistband.

He withdrew them quickly.

He was wearing a nappy.

Nausea washed through his insides, and he looked at the spilled water to try not to panic. He couldn’t stand. He was wearing a… he couldn’t even think it. And he couldn’t pick up a cup.

“John?”

He looked around at the doorway.

A tall stranger stood there, holding a tea towel. “Did you knock your cup over?”

John went rigid. There was a stranger in his room.

“It’s ok, it’s only water,” the stranger came in and picked the cup up, dropping the tea towel over the puddle. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Who are you?” John asked.

The stranger paused, looking worried. “John… it’s Sherlock.”

“I don’t know any Sherlock.”

The stranger looked hurt. “You know me, John. Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, I’m your…” the stranger shook his head. “I’m your…”

“I don’t know a Sherlock Holmes,” John repeated, folding his arms over himself. “Go away.”

“John –”

“Go away! I’ll shout and my dad will hear you. He’ll throw you out. Get out!”

The stranger stared, then turned, and left.

 

*

 

John sat looking at the TV. He wasn’t watching it. Just looking at it.

At the desk, Sherlock (he remembered Sherlock, of course he did) was typing something on his laptop.

The room was almost silent.

John looked down at his hands.

A wedding ring encircled a finger.

He didn’t remember getting that. But he must have.

He didn’t remember his wedding day.

What else didn’t he remember?

How to wash himself, how to dress. How to take himself to the toilet. How to write, or hold a pen properly.

He didn’t even remember why he lived here, with… Sherlock.

“I want to go, now,” he said softly.

Sherlock looked up. “John?”

“I want to go,” John looked at him. “I don’t like this anymore. I want to go.”

Sherlock watched him for a few moments. Then closed his laptop lid. “You want to go… where?”

“Away from this,” John poked at his chest.

Sherlock came and sat next to him, and took his hand. “But what if…” he was crying, but he was still talking. “What if you don’t like not being here?”

“I don’t care,” John whispered. “I need to go.”

“John…”

“Please,” he squeezed Sherlock’s hands. “I don’t _know_ you. But you know me. And… you’re kind. And I like you being kind to me. Sherlock…” he raised one hand and touched Sherlock’s face. “I need to go, now.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into John’s hand. “Alright.”

They stayed still on the sofa for a long time.


	19. Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV
> 
> John's last day.

**Tonight. SH**

**Alright. MH**

**You can come over if you want. SH**

**I’ve said goodbye once. That was enough. He doesn’t need me. MH**

**Thank you. SH**

Sherlock didn’t bother asking why Mycroft was awake before dawn. Maybe he was awake, worrying, too. Maybe he sensed what today was going to be. Maybe he was just always up at this hour, who knew?

Sherlock checked the hour of the sunrise, and went to make tea.

“Good morning,” he crept into their bedroom (John’s bedroom), switching on the bedside lamp. “Brought you some tea.”

John turned over. “Mm.”

“We’re going to have a lovely day,” Sherlock said brightly, fighting down the urge to sob. “It – it’s going to be nice weather, too. I’ve checked.”

“It’s dark,” John pointed out.

“It’ll lighten up, soon. Look,” Sherlock went to the window and opened the curtains. “We can watch the sun rise over London.”

John smiled. “I saw the sunrise in Scotland, in the school holidays. The loch looked like glass, all grey and mirrors.”

“I think this one might be different,” Sherlock climbed onto the bed beside John. “Can you see?”

“Yes,” John picked up the spill-proof mug.

They didn’t speak much after that, watching dawn turn from grey to pink to blue, the white light of the sun sparkling off the glass of the city like a faceted jewel.

“It looks nice out there,” John said softly.

“Shall we go out to look at it?”

“Yes.”

 

*

 

Sherlock pushed John through London, hailing a cab with access when he saw it, and taking him into Knightsbridge, through the streets to the British Museum.

“Have I been here before?” John asked as Sherlock waved his pass and they jumped the queue.

“I think so. But it’s nice to come again.”

“It is.”

They took the lift to the British History exhibition, and went through the corridors.

John might only be able to remember fleeting moments of his own military service, but the exhibition, with displays of medals and maps and uniforms made his eyes light up. He asked Sherlock to read the information on almost every cabinet until he declared he was tired and wanted to leave.

Sherlock tried not to show his relief. “Shall we go for some early lunch?”

“Where?”

“My Old Dutch?”

John nodded, the name of the pancake house clearly not registering with him, but it was somewhere he had loved, and Sherlock had tolerated, until last year.

And waiting at a table for them, was Harriet.

“Hello,” John said uncertainly, recognising his sister, but unable to place her. “You look very nice.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, her eyes red. Sherlock hadn’t told her exactly what today was, but he had hinted this might be her last chance to speak to her brother. “Have you had an exciting morning?”

“Yes, we went to the shops,” John said.

“The museum,” Sherlock corrected, then realised it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if John didn’t remember where they’d just been – the important thing was it had made him feel happy.

He let the siblings talk, with Harriet telling John a lot of things he didn’t understand, but it wasn’t her fault. They had pancakes, and John didn’t eat his, he just licked syrup off the spoon, and Sherlock knew today was a good choice for… it.

“I do love you, John,” Harriet said when John said he was ready to go home. “I know we had our ups and downs, but… you’re my brother, and I love you. Very much.”

John smiled. “I’m glad you came to see me. It’s been lovely to meet you.”

Harriet’s lip started to wobble. “I…”

“Time to go, then, John,” Sherlock carefully turned his wheelchair around. Harriett caught his sleeve.

“Sherlock… Don’t let him suffer,” she whispered. “Please. It kills me to see him like this…”

“He doesn’t have long,” Sherlock said, each word making his skull throb.

She nodded. “Thank you. For taking care of him.”

 

*

 

Mrs Hudson let herself down by sobbing all the way through her goodbye.

John got upset at her tears, and Sherlock had to cut it short, helping the elderly lady down to her flat, and apologising. He didn’t want John distressed. Not today. She hugged Sherlock tight at her door.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” she sniffed. “It’s so unfair on the both of you.”

Sherlock could only nod.

 

*

 

Molly and Lestrade came over together, which was strange.

“Greg gave me a lift,” Molly explained, taking her hanky out as she watched Greg talk to John as if there was nothing wrong – one arm slung over the back of his chair, chatting happily. “How does he seem?”

“He doesn’t know,” Sherlock stirred his cold tea. “At least, I haven’t mentioned it. And he hasn’t asked.” He let go of the spoon. “I assume Mycroft has spoken to you?”

“Yes,” she blushed. “He mentioned it was important that I… you know. And it's alright. Even if he hadn’t told me… I see it more than you’d think.”

“Really?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Yes… People don’t talk about it, but it happens. I don’t report it, unless the police ask me to look for it. There’s no need, is there? If the person is at peace?”

“It could still be murder,” Sherlock pointed out. “Not… assisted dying.”

“I choose to believe it’s the latter,” she said. “When the person has been very poorly for a very long time.”

Sherlock badly wanted to hug her right then, but he kept his arms to himself as Greg came over.

“You alright?”

Sherlock shrugged, watching Molly go to John, and have to introduce herself. “No.”

“I’d be worried if you said ‘yes’, to be honest.” Greg put a hand on Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock didn’t even resist, falling to Greg so they ended up hugging – they had only hugged once, before.

“It’s alright, mate, it’s ok,” Greg patted his back, helping him up. “We’ve got you.”

Sherlock nodded, running a hand over his face. “Do something for me, would you?”

“What’s that?”

“Talk to Mycroft, for God’s sake,” Sherlock sighed. “In something other than a professional capacity.”

“I don’t know what you – ”

“Gregory,” Sherlock said, making Greg blush, “you know exactly what I’m talking about. And take it from me when I say that life if too damn short to stand pretending you don’t know when you’re loved. Don’t make my mistakes.”

Greg nodded.

Molly walked back over. She was choking back sobs.

“Ready?”

She nodded, going on tiptoe to kiss Sherlock’s cheek. “You know where we are.”

 

*

 

“I saw a lot of people, today,” John said, in the bath.

Sherlock added a drop more massage oil to his palms. “You did. It was a busy day. Did you like it?”

“I’m tired,” John yawned. “Tired.”

“I know. Me, too,” he massaged John’s shoulders a little, rubbing his hands down John’s arm. An arm that used to be muscular, and was now thin. Hands that were shaking, and limp.

_Do you think the John you fell in love with will ever come back?_

“Is it time for bed?” John relaxed against the rim of the bath. He looked so small, so old and tired and sick. How had this happened to him? What had this perfect man done to deserve such a fate? He’d been the kindest, most honest, loveable man Sherlock had ever known –

“Am I?”

Sherlock realised he’d been speaking out loud. “Y-yes… John… I’m sorry.”

John looked at him, eyes innocent.

“I’m just…” Sherlock knelt on the tiles. “I’m just going to miss you so much.”

“Oh…” John reached out and touched Sherlock’s hair.

“I love you,” Sherlock sobbed, grabbing John’s wrist. “I love you more than you’ve ever known, and I should have told you as soon as I saw you. I should have married you and taken better care of you, and I’m _sorry_ , John. I’m so, so sorry. I love you. I love you.” Sherlock was hugging John now, getting soaked by his wet body, but John was letting himself be held, as if he knew he was a comfort.

“I’ll miss you, too,” John said.

Sherlock sobbed harder, kissing John’s face, his wet hair, his neck, his arms and hands, kissing him everywhere he could, trying to memorise the feel of him under his hands, the taste of him under his lips, the sensation of John being a living, breathing force in his life. “I love you. My John. My John. I love you so much. And I’m so _sorry_. So sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

 

*

 

John chose his pyjamas – dark grey, with a stripe of blue running through the trousers, then turned to face his clock.

Sherlock watched his own hands puncture the bottles and draw up the clear fluid as if the hands belonged to someone else.

Three bottles. Three syringes.

Enough.

He knelt over John, pulling his shirt up a little to get to his hip. “John… You said before… You wanted to go.”

John looked up, and saw Sherlock holding the needle. Sherlock didn’t try to hide it. “Yes.”

“Is that what you still want?”

John nodded, then reached for Sherlock’s hand. “I’m… scared.”

“I know,” Sherlock forced out through his throat, made of broken glass. “I am, too.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Only to put the needle in, and you’re very brave.”

John nodded. “It’s ok.”

“You want to go?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock moved his hand down.

“Ouch,” John flinched as the first needle punctured his skin. He stayed silent for the second and third, and lay still as Sherlock put the used needles in the drawer, and got into bed beside him, breathing hard. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Told you,” Sherlock wrapped an arm around him, pulling the covers up to their chins. “John… I love you very much. And I – I – I always will.”

“Don’t cry,” John turned to him and put his hands on his chest. “Don’t cry, my Sherlock.”

“Your…” Sherlock blinked down at him.

“You said I’m your John. So you’re my Sherlock. And you’re looking after me.” John smiled. “You always do.”

Sherlock nodded, a tear running down his nose. “Oh, John.”

John yawned, a bone-cracking yawn that made him shudder. “I’m going… going to sleep?”

“Y-essss…”

“And I won’t wake up.”

Sherlock shook his head.

John smiled again. “Thank you.”

Sherlock bent down to kiss him, his lips tasting of salt, of relief, of smiles and weddings and gunshot and running and moors and London and trains and violins and sweat and heat and love and love and love and love and love.

 

*

 

Sherlock didn’t need to check when he woke up.

The bed was too still.

He stared at the ceiling for a moment, imagining he could hear John’s breathy snores, feel his heart beating through the mattress.

“John?” he said into the echo chamber that was now his bedroom. “John…” he didn’t look, but reached a hand over the mattress until he touched.

He drew his hand back and put them both over his face, letting out an ugly, wrenching cry, that came straight from his broken heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the Epilogue.


	20. Epilogue

 

 

**~~ Four Months Later ~~  
**

**John H Watson’s Bucket List**

  1. ~~Organise money and legal things~~  
  

  2. ~~Have Harry over (??)~~  
  

  3. **Visit the Isle of Skye**  
  

  4. ~~Donate medals to military museum~~  
  

  5. ~~Order and eat the 3ft pizza at Angelo’s~~  
  

  6. ~~Spend a lot of time outside, in nature~~  
  

  7. ~~Make proper funeral arrangements~~  
  

  8. ~~Make Sherlock watch Star Wars~~  
  

  9. **Kiss. Every day.  
  
**
  10. ~~Get married~~



Sherlock pulled the crumpled list out of his pocket, checking it over, as if he didn’t know it by heart, anyway. He’d been tempted, several time, to cross out number nine. But it would have been lying. They hadn’t kissed every day. There had been days where John didn’t know who Sherlock was, what their relationship was… Although on some level Sherlock felt they had kissed every day John knew him, he couldn’t bring himself to cross it off.

Besides. He rather liked in completeness of that. Maybe, if it turned out Science was garbage and there was an afterlife after all, they could work on number nine, then.

Number three was much more do-able.

 

*

 

John’s funeral had been a quiet one – the same few guests that had been at his wedding, plus distant cousins and aunts Sherlock didn’t know and Harry had invited. The celebrant had been a very kind woman, who had come over to 221B several times before John’s funeral to talk about John’s wishes, and his life.

It was so easy to talk about him.

It hurt – like knives dipped in fire, it hurt – but it was an easy kind of pain. Talking about John seemed to prove he once existed, and that helped. Sherlock showed her his blog, and she read the whole thing, using their adventures as a basis for the funeral service.

Sherlock had half-expected to be grief-numb on the day, but he wasn’t. He stood at the front of the room, eyes on John’s coffin, which was draped in a Union Flag, along with tassels and insignia from his military service. John’s body had been dressed in his Dress Uniform, Sherlock knew that, but he hadn’t seen him.

The last time Sherlock saw John’s body was when Molly, and her quiet, respectful team, came to collect it. John had died in his sleep, and Sherlock saw that his eyes were closed.

“Do you want to say goodbye?” Molly had asked.

Sherlock nodded, and the staff cleared the room.

John was stretched out, but on his side, one hand up close to his face. He wore his usual sleeping expression, telling Sherlock he’d been unconscious when the overdose hit him. He was grateful for that.

He reached out and brushed John’s hair into place, fingers shaking as they touched firm, cold skin, moving to John’s nose, his mouth, his hand. Sherlock hesitated, then reached and gently pulled off John’s wedding ring, putting it on his own right-hand ring finger.

“I love you,” he said softly. “I’m – I’m glad you don’t have to feel like you did, anymore.”

Before this, Sherlock would have scoffed at talking to a dead body, but surely, in this emotional state, it was alright.

“I’m going to miss you so much.” Sherlock bent down and kissed John’s cold forehead.

As he stared at the coffin during the funeral, that was all he could think about. This was goodbye. The last one they would ever get, and _god_ , Sherlock was having to share it with all these people. He bit his lip as he thought about their last night. John dying in his arms, sleepy and comfortable and loved, and he realised this was merely a formality. No one would ever know the details of that night. They were Sherlock’s private moments.

The mourners stood as the music played. There would be no slow procession into a churchyard – John was going to be cremated, as he had always said he wanted – instead, the people would have to leave John’s body behind, to be taken away and burned.

Sherlock ignored the people filing out of the room, and instead walked to John’s coffin. He put a hand on the wood, feeling the slickness of the varnish over the wood grains.

He didn’t speak.

Then went out to receive condolences from people who would never know how beautiful John was, how funny, how caring, how perfect and just for Sherlock he had been.

Sherlock would never tell them. What was left of John was only memories, and he was going to keep those to himself.

 

*

 

“Come on, then,” Sherlock said to no one, pocketing the list, and starting up the worn footpath. It was misty, and the brown grass and low heather beneath his walking boots was wet.

The footpath snaked up, through boulders and cracked flint where tourists searched for fossils, past a tiny tea shop with a sheep standing outside as if it wished to be served. Sherlock walked, the sun starting to cut through the fog as the day took hold. He stopped, and drank water, looking down at how far he’d gone so far.

Not far to go.

The hills rose gradually, and Sherlock kept his ears listening for the right sound until he heard the tell-tale sound from the right. He followed it, smiling as he caught sight of the tarn rolling down the hillside, widening as it went, ready to join the river, and spill into the sea.

Sherlock found a decent-sized boulder to perch on, took out the list again, and a pencil.

 

  1. **~~Visit the Isle of Skye~~**



He crossed it off, folding the paper back up, and swinging his bag down from over his shoulders. He unclipped it, and reached inside for the wooden box.

“Finally,” he held it carefully. “You’d better appreciate this.” He unscrewed the lid and looked inside at the grey stuff. “Still, I don’t hear you complaining, either.”

Sherlock went to kneel at the side of the tarn, where the water gushed over smoothened rocks, white and frothing and running down, desperate to chase itself to the sea. He gently tipped the wooden box, slowly letting John’s ashes fall into the water, little by little.

“Off you go…”

His fingers caught the edge of the casket, ash clinging to his skin and blowing up into the air as the finer stuff escaped the breeze kicked up by the rushing stream. Sherlock inhaled it, breathed it in, let it settle in his hair.

John’s ashes went into the stream. They flowed down to the river, into the ocean, where currents would ensure they touched every corner of the globe. The atoms that had made John would become clouds, and raindrops of John’s atoms would fall onto Sherlock’s outstretched hands months and years from now. John would become part of plants and trees, and would be part of everyone and everything that would ever live, if only there was enough time left for the Earth to spin at all.

Sherlock let water team into the casket, rinsing it out entirely, so nothing was left of John in the urn. He then set it back inside the rucksack.

He stayed on the hillside for a long time, watching the water move, thinking of how much John would have loved it, here. How he had asked Sherlock to arrange a trip here, and he never had. It was difficult not to feel dreadful about that sort of thing. But Greg told him there was no use dwelling on the past, and he (annoyingly) seemed to be right.

When the sun disappeared behind a cloud, Sherlock dried his eyes, and set off back down the hill.

 

*

 

“He’s back!” Greg yelled as Sherlock walked into the inn. “Myc, Molly!” He lowered his voice. “How did it go?”

“Fine,” Sherlock nodded, hanging his coat up, trading his boots and shoes.

“Ok… we’ve got a table, come on.” Greg led him to a booth beside the fireplace, where Molly and Mycroft were smiling and waiting for him. “Got you a drink, we thought we’d do a toast.”

“A toast?” Sherlock accepted the brandy, holding it without sampling it.

“To John,” Greg raised his own glass. “Happy Fortieth.”

“Happy Fortieth,” Molly and Mycroft repeated.

Sherlock didn’t say it, but he clinked glasses with the others, and sipped his drink. They didn’t bother him to join in, and he let the chatter go on around him, cocooning himself in the company, in the understanding, and in the love.

In the months to come, there would be more tears, heartache and stress. There would also be laughter, a case involving an escaped octopus, and a rescue from a flooding basement. There would be dreadful days where Sherlock would shout and sob into John’s old clothes, and there would be days where he would offer John’s old coats to the homeless people he dealt with. There would be love, and there would be a wedding, where Sherlock was the best man, and there would be many offers of companionship followed by ‘no, thank you. I’m married’.

But for now, there was brandy. And Scotland. And friends.

Sherlock smiled.

 _Happy Birthday, John_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you one and all for all the love and support you've given this fic. It's been a killer to write, at times, and I gather it's been a killer to read, too. Thank you, thank you, for sticking with this story, and I hope I'll see you again. XxxxX
> 
> Edit 02/10/16: I now have a tumblr linked to my fanfics: http://laiquilasse.tumblr.com/

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Marbles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9800702) by [The_Lunatic_Actress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lunatic_Actress/pseuds/The_Lunatic_Actress)




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